Jack Ross Knutson

The Fight

I watched a man beaten to death
I sat and watched with the others
Was it a fair fight?
Yes, only except for the fact the loser died
I could have stood up and done something
It wasn’t for lack of courage I didn’t
Well, maybe partly to be honest
No one else stood up, though, so why me
Just the two men, swinging, wheezing
Grunting, swearing
One swung, the other reeled, head slamming 
against the wall
I think I heard a crack
He stumbled forward, insensate
The fight is over
Then the victor swung again, brutally
Against the defenseless man
The head and face melted against the blow
This time the sound of bone snapping was undeniable
As the head whipped then wobbled, jelly like
Collapsing on the floor one could see the
Urine drain from the crotch
Then soon the smell of feces filled the air
Just after the last convulsive quiver signaled the
Stripping of personality from the clay
The bartender was shouting in Mandarin
Grabbed the telephone
Incomprehensible but easily translated
Death in my bar, Death in my bar, police,  police
All the sturdy whether short or tall ran
From the scene
Fear in their previously fascinated eyes which
Had driven every punch
Last rites of the loser with perfect eloquence
Only now have I realized how young they were
I left with the others