Bine was big. BIG
and angry.
Not at specifics.
Fundamentally.
His very nature
was structured rage.
"Who ye laughin it?"
was all he asked me.
I had not laughed,
not cracked a smile,
not twitched a lip.
There was no reason
for his thumping me.
Stamping on my hands
was overkill.
I do not play piano
any more, or smile.
It is enough to type
one-finger poems
with my elbow.
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