Born Under An Angry Moon

He climbed the cot, found his fist,
sucked and greased it in readiness to punch
the candles from the cake.

His six brothers taught him to throw rude words
at ducks and crusts at old ladies.

Hardened on glass his fist grew large in warm
hoodie pockets.

He threw away friends and boxed his neighbour.
One day he lifted a car to stare at the driver.

He had not been introduced to girls when one fell
at his feet, confused and clumsy he struck one last
liberating blow at himself.

Then he removed the gloves and took her hand.