Sarah, I wouldn't actually punch you.

I wrote this poem in the passenger seat of Krystal Hering's Honda Fit, on the way to a conference in Atlanta last year. Andy was in the back of the car reading, I think. I just found this in my notebook:

title: I'd Punch Indiscriminately

I'd punch you in the arm pit
I'd punch you in the damn hip
I'd punch you while a gypsy band stood by,
watching
and strumming.

I'd charge out the door of my apartment complex
and punch you in the Lincoln Avenue crosswalk.
A haggard woman with glowing pink knuckles
would come out of Pita Pita, banging a wooden spoon
against the side of a skillet, and I'd punch her too.

I'd lay that old woman out flat on the asphalt
and I'd punch anyone who had something to say about it.
I'd punch anydamnone. I'd punch your damn grandmother.
I'd punch my own damn grandmother. I'd punch my own girlfriend
in the damn throat. I'd punch my best friend in the seat of the pants
and when he turned around, I'd punch his crotch.