Friday, August 31, 2012



He took with ordinary greed, holding out
a plate he never washed, eyes hooded --
Unless what came his way was blame:
For that he had a crowsnest and alarums,
would shoot down at a distance, shrieking
it was ours, all our faults. A cry
so masculine we cannot hear it any more,
it is the drone of every story copied
into ink or bit. He had no success to claim
except outliving wives, using
more than his share. He did that
moderately well. He signed the cards
others chose and set before him,
let her keep us fed and hushed, claiming
family in that slipknot way we expect.
Man is hard and smooth, the stone
that wears through pocket seams,
a nonsorb surface onto which we
paint imagined humanity
until the reel is changed, or
afternoon showers arrive.


©  Maggie  Jochild, 31 August 2012, 6:57 am 

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