My Brother’s New Balls by Ben Newell

Mom admonishes my brother
for being such a pushover
with his woman.

He toils 10-15 hours per 24
while she sits on her ass,
refusing to work
to help with their precarious
financial situation.

He handles the cooking duties
after a long day,
finances her weekly manicure
and even bought her a new set
of titties
when they still had money
for things like titties.

A manipulative parasite,
she has spent her entire adult life
leaping from man to man to man,
feeding off their generosity
and cowardice
and stupidity
and fear of loneliness.

My respect for my brother has reached
an all-time low;
I can hardly even look at him
without getting ill—

Even on this joyous Xmas,
watching him unwrap a box
of Titleist golf balls.

I don’t know much about the game,
but they look like really
nice balls,
hard and shiny and ready
for flight.

Too bad they’re the wrong
kind.

Ben Newell 2

Ben Newell, 43, works as a library clerk at a small college in Jackson, Mississippi. His poems have appeared in The Blood Machine, Chiron Review, LUMMOX, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, and other underground publications. He is a Bennington College dropout.

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