Blind criticism is an old carnival strong man
pressing down down down his muscles bunched and bulging
making the tattooed ladies dance
He’s flattening a circle of made of iron,
making it straight and even and smooth
indestinguishable
changing its shape as easily as he spits in the dirt
Hiss body hurts but could do this all day long,
Breaking things is his only joy.
Coffee and his unfiltered cigarettes
don't please him anymore
The last of his women all left him while he slept.
The fortune teller knows to tell him lies
the snake charmers whisper strikes behind his back
He's old body still has a kind of bulky swagger
as he looks for other things to bend
He sneers as the children back away
As if they knew, they’d never grow
if he breathed on them
with his old man breath.
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