Not to avoid him but
to try him rightly armed
is why I go around

sweating with business while
an “I” sits sound asleep
wisely in full awares.

It waits for a touch at night
touching its terrors, to
reply: “Here is your man,

Angel: wrestle him fed,
housed by the working day,
and clothed in currency,”

but only hears a voice
laughing and going away,
saying, “No thanks,

I don’t fight punks.”