CLASH OF THE TITANS

Bernie was a cell phone bully. He was rude and dense
and loud.
He was welcome as a cold sore in the midst of any crowd.
He never noticed human beings politely in pursuit
Of contemplation, quiet talk—he wasn’t too astute.
He never asked those seated near, “I say, mind if I phone?”
One must assume his boorishness was deep down to the bone.

One afternoon, he strode into the airport waiting room,
Plopped down beside a gentleman that most would say
of whom
Was never inconsiderate and normally devout,
But Chuck took on a darker side when Bernie’s phone
popped out.
He dialed up, then smugly sat, and waited for the call
As if the twenty other folks weren’t even there at all.

Then Bernie quick began to blab, his breath to halitose.
His words careened around the room and singed those in
too close.
Incensed at Bernie’s lack of grace, Chuck gave him quite
a start.
Addressed him in a civil tone, “I say, mind if I toot?”
Bernie humphed, then turned away, disdain upon his brow.
“I warned you, sir,” Chuck smartly said, then fired one ’cross
the bow.

It caught poor Bernie’s pinstriped suit and frayed his
snappy threads.
The sharp lapels curled at the tip, his collar hung in shreds.
But Bernie felt he had a right to bother and impose,
To force himself on all around. His conversation rose.
Another strong yet subtle blast, an SBD, I guess,
Was Chuck’s response, and Bernie took it full upon the chest.

It rose up like a mushroom cloud, encircled Bernie’s head.
His words cut smoke rings from the fog—like donuts,
people said.
But undeterred by Chuck’s attacks, he never took the hint,
He blabbered on like all was fine but he’d begun to squint.
Chuck launched a dank torpedo, an aromatic burst
That set poor Bernie’s hair on fire as toxic fumes dispersed.

The phone began to crackle, there was static on the line.
But rudeness is a funny thing, can cloud a person’s mind.
He stubbornly refused to budge, remaining quite obtuse.
His tie began to throb and glow, his boutonniere came loose.
Chuck reached down deep for one last blast, achieved his
heart’s desires,
That cleared the room and left the scent of burning rubber tires,

Of heavy metal meltdown and of twisted steel grooved,
But . . . amidst this flaming ambience ol’ Bernie sat unmoved.
His ragged suit lay at his feet, no longer pleats and creases,
Just single-breasted leisure wear, like melted Reese’s Pieces.
His tie somehow survived the fight, though wadded up
and stained,
But . . . in spite of being scorned and shamed, his
obstinance remained.

Chuck’s ire was up, still resolute, he’d shown this clod what for,
That piggish manners would not go unchallenged anymore.
They tried to stare each other down, these Titans wound up tight,
One, who’d reached his patience’s end, the other, impolite.
Just then ol’ Bernie’s cell phone rang, though feebly, it is true,
He looked at Chuck, then took the call, then said, “Well, it’s
for you.”