You have no power        not now,

veiled threats perhaps

sly digs in which my name

spits

off your tongue, the kind of fascist

remark,     I expect from you

but only missing a number,  tattooed

on my skin.

Would you prefer I sank to my knees,

saying

 Oh lordy master, please

don’t torture me so, don’t serve up me up

as example of your impotent rage,

for I see you for the weak and pathetic boy

that you are,                      ineffective

capitalist front, happy

to screw a person over

because it makes you feel big inside.

Ian D. Hall 2017