Ring the Brownstones

“You do this every God damn time!”

Exclaimed the man

Hands half thrown in the air

While he ripped the door of the old van

Open

“Fucking Bullshit – that is what it is!”

His head full of dark hair slightly covered

With a Yankees hat

Strewn to the right

The short stout man

Flung the back door of the transport van

Wide open

Hoping to rip it from the hinges

Anger, rage, discontent, dismayed

His voice rang up through the brownstones

Like a choral chamber in a church

He disappeared into the van

Throwing out both one more explicative

Cargo equipment

His friend walked drooped at the shoulders

Slowly recovering the bulls rage thrown

“I’ll tell them what I am going to do”

I wipe my eyes for the first time

It is 7 AM on Manhattan Ave.

This is not unusual

But rather more intense than not

I pull my face close to the glass

Feeling the winter cold briefly pass

My nose

Must be cold out there I think

Unfortunate soul

Throwing out the kitchen sink

But all on a good Tuesday morning in Brooklyn

Now

Back to work

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2 minus a fraction may disagree

But when they do it is fun to see

That not all can be made happy

Some look for reasons to drag

The anger out in life

To take the butter knife

Make it a weapon of bitter strife

Looking for something to complain about

Dreading the look of the new round about

The feelings build in their soul

Calling from the depths of the cold

To push anger out of their teeth

Lips clenched tight

Holding on to every breath

Taking time to announce and renounce

Passing the baton for the test

To other people infected with this anger

They inflict on others

Knowing no stranger

There is nothing stranger

Then the subtle complaint

Of what was good

Must be forced upon bad

The cashier checks me out with both hands

Asking if I would like cash in hand

I respond with a whimper

Not quite sure she could hear

But I count my change and remember

That life is much easier

If you can control that temper