Ordinary Time. Michael D. Riley
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number one. Just another Jew master
for the working man. Kneel on, if you must.”
Every button memorized. Unfair every way.
Nothing dumb about him, just rage on rage.
A cave of rotten wood and sheep shit
would have been fine by me, but she wouldn’t go.
I never met a wise man my whole life,
so we could do without that. Watch the stars,
laugh, and paint the gate any color
we damn well pleased, barn red to Irish green.
That holy family set always scared me.
Who knew what he would do, laugh or scream.
He worked hard enough, bare-knuckled
barrels and skids, iron arms sliding dock freight
into trucks. Seldom touched a drop, either.
God, I loved the ships, the oily sea smell,
the cries of the gulls, the creak of bull-rope.
Little did I know. All her life she never
could say why, though once she said
she still loved the ruin of the man she married.
It’s a story of hope, she’d whisper to me,
hope and love no matter what. Family.
Even she had to blush over that one.
She got her revenge when she was gone.
Or I did. He ran down like a cheap clock
and finally shut up. Hardeyed, grim,
his big shoulders and neck shrunk to fit
the Boston rocker on the porch.
Every night he stared at the same
street light beside Kunzler’s Meats, or the moon
up and down the street length as it rolled
over the housetops. He hardly ever spoke
the last two years, but who could ever guess
what he thought anyway? All I felt
was empty when he shrunk to coffin size,
lying there without a bitter laugh at the last.
I sort of prayed a moment. Then it passed.
Sailing the world slinging hash on one tub
after another kept me a few steps ahead
of love at least. I never boiled an egg
since I retired. Never will. Good luck
to all the ladies. They run like schooners
through my dreams, but I will make do just here.
I like this time just when the sunset tilts
away and the little plastic people
get caught up in their own light, when they glow
from inside as if there was more to them
than a 100 watt bulb and blind faith.
She would glow. He would need a moon-sized
mannequin and more than reflected light.
Forgiveness big as pain he’d need, and then
some more. I wonder what I’d do if I
were God and he showed up. I might consult
the moon, or a plastic family.
I might forgive him on a dare.
I like the little guy in his tiny wooden sloop,
Mom and Pop for oars, God himself almighty
for wind, sea, and sail. Float on, Swabbie.
I’ll have a pint for you when you reach port
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