The throbbing vein in the dead center of his forehead
Always gives it away
So does turning pink, then cherry red, then a dark maroon
and fumbling over his words.
He hates being this angry
Because his blood pressure shoots sky high
And he feels out of control, dimmed vision
pulsating vessels, clenched, iron jaw
Afterwards it feels like he ran several miles during summer
But all he did was stand still,
The floor supporting his locked legs
As he goes through his unbridled rage.