I don’t know the women,
but I picture them strong.
Their names are echoes
of patron saints,
or famous travelers;
the heroines of cabbage eating people.
The men, though:
Vladislav, Vostok,
Wachek.
They saw men
on wood and linoleum stages.
They saw themselves
pulled by an aluminum bridle.
Men need nourishment,
even before the sun can shake its disapproval.
Electric veins course until lunch time.
Refill! Beer run!
Whiskey
under the gut and ready to burn
at a moment’s notice.
Time cards:
the analog tick of sore bodies
and shameful performance.
“Refill!” “Set them free!”
Off to feel the gentle ease
of tension being replaced
with expectation.
Which echo will they hear after dinner?
Home,
or the nymph?
Musical interludes
of sweat and fun abroad
delay the inevitable.
The day isn’t over
until vibrato folds to chemistry,
wife and babe feel the result,
and grow the bruises to prove it.
The drive —
we’ll call it work ethic —
to do it all again,
in spite of sorrow and having anything better to do,
is something to be admired
in a cutesie, but dark denial-laden fashion.
So,
I guess I’m doing okay.
Image courtesy of Pinterest
Timothy Tarkelly has had poetry featured by Paragon Journal, GNU, Whisper and the Roar, Haunted Waters Press, Cadaverous Magazine, Poets & War, Cauldron Anthology, Lycan Valley Press, Fourth & Sycamore, and Aphelion. When he is not writing, he works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence in western Kansas.
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.
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