The Pummel Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The pummel;
That is his fix.
He puts the nozzle;
He is the superb contender
In the room full of
Tigers and shadows.

There he sits
And feels the drought
In his throat -
He desiccates himself
Like a dry spigot.

The sedation looms
He sews it with his
Erstwhile gossamer lips
Now dried, dead and
Decrepit.

He needed his fix,
I craved for mine
And seeing him
There, with the possible
Stench of subtleties
Sitting there,

Engaging in
Sublime tete-a-tetes
Looking at the Sun
With his marred eyes
Perhaps blank
And emptied;
Is this his fata morgana?
I do not know

He needed his fix.
We all do.