Friday, February 13, 2015

pat garrett + billy the kid

When I say
I picked up my son from the subway
I mean I laid in wait
with grocery sacks
halfway between his stop and the house
I am getting old
the wine is not so easy on the joints
never mind the other shit
the food, this and that, the perishables

He took one bag
without my asking, he is a stand up kid
we wound our way
back up the hill at a snail's pace
I don't have it
in me to strike out pigeon chested
not with
a cigarette clamped
between broken teeth, spit feathering

I fumbled the key
and we stepped inside the smokehouse
no meat cured
dishes piled up in tidy stacks
set down those sacks and cracked a bottle

Well, I said.

I poured
two glasses, one small one just to be polite
and while his back
was still turned
while dogs bared fangs and dybbuks rumbled
the hair long,
blond, on his neck like some doomed
Greek god
twilight gathering at the shoulder
sat down to write a poem.



This one definitely has the spirit of Buk (perhaps War All the Time) had he been a caring parent (or sIbling).

ib said...

Thank you, brother Nathan.

Eliot was kind of pissed, reading over my shoulder. Like the spirit of Jesse James. Trying too hard to be mean.