Axe Derby

Never were knuckle-men.

Choked up on planks

of smoke, they haul

towards the peplum: stabbing

back at time, splinters of it

flip like cars. Rolled sleeves,

knees cooked, the rousie

is flirting with her broom, a blonde

with criminal simplicity with

historical truth we can detoxify

a poisoned planet. Now

they’re descending the spirit heap;

dribbling pinkies along fair knotty thighs.

Children are returning to pick up the butts.

Still the brunette is caving in the face

of time, is making herself a living

treasure from this surplus

hour the minutes fly