8.2



I walk with the dreams of the child I was,

who walks with his father, handsome and hurried.

My mother is young as the first wish of love.

The ember of youth is a crumbling fury.


A man is a paper sack full of sins,

greasy with donuts and coffee twice brewed,

calloused in hand and sodden in liver,

pale as his vision and bruised as his muses.


Dimwitted, dull-eyed, the ember gone dark,

dollars to donuts and donuts to dust,

liar to lover and lover to jerk,

child to father and father to shark,

a man is the door, the car and the lot.

Men, in the end, are their work and their luck.  



originally published in Fjords Review

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