THREE POEMS by Rusty Barnes

 

Dad at 40 Remembers

 

You and Bob Terry

moved the outhouse

four feet backward in

the dead midnight of

possum and starshine

and how your father

hitched his overalls up

and walked into the foul

pit.  He tanned your ass

while Bob ran away.

Thirty years later you

giggle at the memory in

the midst of your Pabst

while I cling to your big

tan arm and dream of

adventures far off from

this shit and piss world.

 

 

Θ

 

 

The Father’s Story

 

You lie on the couch prone,

cigarette in hand and body-shot,

 

relaxing in front of the TV

after the slow ride home,

 

You tell me the story of how

your father held his eggshell head

 

in his hands for hours in front

of the woodstove struck dumb

 

with unknown terrors,

and you tip your ash into

 

the tray and breathe out long.

You tell me I’m a lot like him,

 

and you cross your arms on

your chest and fly into the clouds

 

of smoke gathered around

the table lamp. You sigh.

 

Your eyes drift downward

like the sun. Oh, my father,

 

my lonely old father,

And you sleep.

 

 

Θ

 

 

In the Poet’s Adolescence

 

when he knew enough to keep

away from fire and other hazards,

 

how to load a flintlock .58,

the way to pry a dog’s jaw

 

off a whitened bone

but very little about women,

 

took his hand out gently,

put his heart on a girl’s

 

knee

 

moved slightly northward

and got rightfully burned.

 

***

 

Rusty Barnes lives in Revere, MA. His latest book of poetry is called Jesus in the Ghost Room and his latest novel is Knuckledragger. If you want to know more, check www.friedchickenandcoffee.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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