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.