the libertine cracks some
marsupials into the frying pan
the noise they make
as the sear makes him wince
and beg for deafness

he is malcontent and ambidextrous,
with his other hand, he shuffles
for a round of rummy,
which he will play with a motley.

the rest of the scoundrels,
inelegant as they are, lined the bases
in the back lot
and hit a homerun each time.

they are discontinued and abbreviated
charred at the edges, ganged up
a synecdoche for their specific sins
would be the crimes

the cynosure practices his pitching
and trades out his aces
for an empty hand, the winner,
sniffling praise up through a straw.

he is frosted and bombastic,
with his monologue in every building,
his dishonor sheds off in pellets,
these men, microcosms of murderers
yet unborn