Little Big Men

image borrowed from bing

Little Big Men

In the logging town of Kapowsin,
down at the Chalet Tavern every
Thursday night, under forgotten,
dried out sprigs of mistletoe, after
the drunken crowd becomes manic,
fist fights inevitably break out,
the callow punks with beer sweat
glistening on their pink foreheads,
create their weekly carom event--

as heavy bodies slam into and off of
rough-hewn log walls, usually breaking
at least one electric Budweiser sign;
the local brutes valiantly endeavoring
to aver themselves over the more demure
clientele--just before something quite
wondrous happens, for there is this
posse of pygmies who like to drink
there on that night,

who are actually quite spry for little guys,
and the forty of them love to gang up
on the bellicose thugs, using hardwood
police batons, beating them senseless,
and then sitting on them while finishing
their frothy pitchers of draft,

waiting patiently for the cops to be called,
the several aide cars to line up outside
with their many colored light bands pulsating,
watching the bruised behemoths being
carried out on stretchers--calling out
to them with guttural African epithets!

“Can’t wait for next Thursday,” one of the
short warriors said,”I’ve got a dozen
cousins coming for a visit.”


Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

Listed as #2 over at Shawna's Monday Melting, Week 4

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?