The End Poem by Stan Petrovich

After he swollowed his defeat
And fell into the dread silence,
If no longer had the need to cheat,
No tower of strength and balance;
And toppled into bed
A moan tearing his belly;
There he stayed for
A bunch of blue moons,
Not looking out soon
From steamed-up windows
Of yellow and brown
-fear-
Till death was near.

Then he arose and went out,
Only to fuss and fight,
Drink a mighty bunch of beer
That he expelled,
The color of blood.
As his lingering body
Began finally to flood,
He passed on and returned from whence he came: the mud.