The Brawl And Courtroom Poem by saranyan bee

I am the accused No1!
Here I stand, veiling my short breaths
with a snakes’ growl,
I smell my own blood,
the gash on my cheek pains like hell,
no blood smells good.

The ring of people around me
are confused
about what to do with a mess like myself,
the ring moves with every step
I make, like the shell of a tossed ostrich egg
to it’s dangling yolk.

The mongrel at my foot wags it’s tail,
taking stock of things,
the urchin in a stained livery, looks quite impressed -
dog wagging the tail is good for the dog,
good for me who is standing
with all buttons torn out of my shirt.

My torso stifles to the chill air
like a shriveled horse,
I’d covered my waist in time,
with the blue duster cloth
they use for cleaning the SUV,
which the urchin with grease-smell gave.

Because my trousers tore at the seam
in the brawl at the esplanade,
bare chest is fine,
you don’t feel bad standing erect and naked -
for we know full buff is sign of manhood -
but trousers torn at the seem

caught up in the fight
is something people laugh about,
we are victims of perception, you see;
the mongrel walks away after winning over my heart,
becomes a friend for life,
doesn’t wait where he has no business.

The boy waits,
he wants his linen back the look of his eyes show,
there are cars to be cleaned before the sunset I guess,
the men from customs office
need cars with sheen when they get home,
he looks at my hip vaguely without asking.

The ambulance shoves the slain away,
the ambulance with red blinkers,
a medico plugs in oxygen in a show of distress,
the nurse with the fatlike hands pound his chest
though I am sure the fellow is dead
because I killed him.

“Pleading not guilty”, I say,
the Justice lifts his specs to his forehead and peers at my face,
‘Not guilty, Lordship, for three reasons -
because the dog wagged me its’ friendly tail,
it was the seam of my trousers that was torn,
and I hid my genitals with the blue cloth.’