Fall 2019 / Poetry 2019 / Volume 50

Slouch Man By: Corey Hill

The slouch man waits,

smoke fat and crackle heavy,

verged electric, always jangling. 

He appears anywhere 

waddle belly into bursting, 

forcing fight in what his gut spills. 

 

A man for the ages,

roiling beneath his sweat crust shell,

always scratching that part, 

boil prober, itch tender, 

thinking he’s the wounded one. 

 

Some seek a hold,

you maybe wanna know what makes him. 

Hell, he looks just like us, there’s one

on every corner, bubbled with a lust for 

clack of hooves and hose

and teeth-rattled asphalt. 

 

He just shows up. 

He doesn’t think too hard.

He spits and yells and 

punches and kills. 

Simple red points,

no need for learning more.

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