by Brian P. Schulz
After last night's quarrel,
all beer-venom spittle
and flying index fingers,
his heart--oh!--his head; both
are hairy, like his tongue,
and packed too heavy
to raise from bed. He is no longer
Aesop's high-mettled mule, frolicsome
and overfed, certain of his grace
and sinewy charm. He
is merely an ass.
Brian P. Schulz would rather be riding the spine.
