all this talk of hammers-
has me thinkin’ ‘bout that night-
in arizona and that damned cactus,
that got stuck in the tires,
in the roaring heat of the day
that followed through until a milky,
effervescent night.
its a hoax, the dreaded hammer-
the prick of the cactus that bleeds you
and passes it off as its own blood,
like a swift gesture
of that bloody blow the tool
delivers
or the smooth and quick burn
of roadside indigestion delivered in
a greasy spoon—
with an angelic smile from the waitress,
you would have taken in a minute,
right on the dirty floor,
that somebody forgot to mop the night before
but you reconsider
when the hammer creeps up behind you
and shakes its rusted little head
and lets you make up for it on the way home
in a pool of the cactus’s blood.