Control

Fights last moments,
a hot spark but with little fuel.
You know they are coming,
That unexplainable signal,
the defensive senses flip on,
the muscles loose but ready to block,
a frisson of nerves that comes before a kiss
but without the excitement,
just grimly ready
(“I wasn’t done.” He’s going to throw.)
the petulant man-child with the glassy eyes,
(He’s big but he wears pilsner cologne)