Unabomber Guys

Ted Kaczynski and others

I’m so tired of disappointed men

who sit in cabins pecking

invectives on archaic Underwoods.

Don’t even think of knocking 

on a Unabomber’s door, offering

 lasagne or chicken pot pie.

These guys feed on themselves.

They love their own thin blood

and overactive spleen.

They have no qualms about

sticking a stamp, even a pretty one,

red  roses or blue lagoons, 

to a letter bomb,

blow up you or me

or plain old “occupant.”

 To a Unabomber guy

we’re black type, white space

a flat sheet of onion skin.

With their little metal fists

they pound, pound,

pound in the dim light.