Monday, January 17, 2005

One grunt

This is my floor
I'm down on it
cheek flattened hands
on the wood its yellow grain
spreads away from me like wheat
like all these things
tumbleweed dog hair
the rancher's son upon me
one grunt for every nail
the underside
of a long oak table at dinnertime
my father with a bottle of fine whiskey
hiding in his pant leg
and always the boys
kicking each other tonight
there'll be pieces of dinnerware on the floor
and chairs knocked back
and bellyaching -
quit yer bellyaching -
I never liked sex
on the floor the convenience
of it and the acres
of accessibility and it's so
cinematic like the family supper
everyone buffed and glowing
the kitchen hardwood
oiled and ready.
If only those boys
could just settle down
maybe the old man
would leave them alone.


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