Huns

“Hey babe.”
He slipped into my sacred booth.

Attila the Hun resurrected himself from my text book.
His hulking form, brooding forehead, and sharp metal hands
grew color, tangibility, and rage
until, finally, with a frothy screech,
he ripped that faux face
right off.

I smiled.
“How are you?”

He shrugged and put on his
‘I’m sorry this time, really,’ mask.
“So, I heard you were heading out. . .”

“Yep, I took a job on the East coast.”

Attila wasn’t happy,
a little on edge.
He roared, his eyes wide, wild,
and started to drag his army out,
raising them for blood lust.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted
to do something tonight.
You know, for old times sake.”

Eager dead surrounded the poor, small man
who rested forward on his elbows in earnest
completely unaware
of the ancient figure sharpening an ax
next to his ear.

“Um, well-”

“Oh, come on, babe.
We’ll watch a movie, maybe have a few beers.
It’ll be great! I can have you home by midnight.”

Swoosh!
Plop. . .
Oh dear.
There went his head.

“I-”

“I’ll meet you back here-say- nine?”

Fist and swords created such a frenzy
that I could barely see him.
My friend, Attila, the crimson faced god,
rode his horse through the restaurant
and roared and roared
and roared.

“Sure.”

“Great!”

The Huns escorted me out.
Their banners and whoops and wails
must have made quite the spectacle.
But at eight-thirty, we all settled down
and pilled on my couch
with our chocolate ice cream and
fuzzy slippers
And watched a movie together.