Raising Hell
April 7 2006


Damned tooth, he winced
— not again!
A nail into the brain,
hot electric probes.

He remembers broken bones
the flattened nose
spraying blood.
The stitch in his side,
so they cut him open
— appendix, ruptured.
Tough as nails
he took all comers,
never ducked a fight.

So when his shoulder ached
he just ignored it.
And when the sweat came
the breath shortened
his chest, clutched,
he downed some Aspirin,
went to bed, no fuss.

We found him dead, next morning.

And laid out in his coffin
didn’t he look fine —
a handsome stiff
in unaccustomed
suit and tie.
Probably raising hell
tossing halos
charming angels;
flashing heaven
that cockeyed smile.


I wanted to write a poem about stoicism. The heart attack thing -- the denial -- was there from the start. And I wanted it unapologetic: none of the bloody earthy bodily references softened. But this feisty little bantam-weight bare-knuckle fighter kind of came out of nowhere (or at least that’s how I see him.) Ultimately, it became more of a word-play poem: just plain fun, especially when you read it out loud, and fast.