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On the Sleeve (by Bradley Paul)

Oh, I was angry.
The guy was like “you’re a dick”
and I was like “No, you’re a dick,”
and he was like “I want to kill you”
and I was like “No, I want to kill you,”
and we kept that up for a good while.
But we resolved it so
now I’m happy, and
the sugars are solid
in the flesh of the pear
until a gale of diesel exhaust
blackens our lunch
and soots the café window.
Now I feel frustrated
at the cosmic antipathy
toward eating a decent pear.
It’s like this Iraq business,
or cancer out of nowhere.
One day everyone’s surplussing along,
the next day
all these people are dead.
The guy says
“That’s what a dick like you deserves,”
and I am angry with him again.
Call this a volatile
and artless set of moods,
self-centered, whatever,
but when the dog soldiers come to eat my heart,
their red velvet tunics
crusted hard in guts
that used to be wet,
I easily toss them my spleen
and as they gnash each other’s haunches
in a bloody dog soldier scrum
I skip away,
keeping my heart,
or so one says
to stay happy, happy, happy.