leaving no mark the shattering, but fell in the red dirt
of the lonesome road. On hands and knees, he felt
the grit stinging, mixing with a scrape in muddy blood.
He picked himself up and staggered dusty to the trunk.
It bore no scratch, like his father, stood straight and tall
with heavy, heavy arms, hard wooden hands. He crossed
his arms tenderly to cover blue-black splotches spoilage.
Thoughts rained from glowering clouds, the drinking
and the shouting beat down his glooming face, a tear
cut a lonely track. He tasted salt, darkened with the
knowledge he had done nothing, absolutely nothing.
He sat against the tree, pushing unyielding strength
with his back, not giving as he had done last night.
He plucked a long grass stem, jealous of its suppleness
to rebound when bent, he snapped off pieces like himself.
He slapped himself suddenly on the thighs repeatedly,
rebuking his slattern fear that shocked with blows
landing in the hazy bluish glow of the television late news,
the empty beer cans shining against the man's chair.
He lifted a sore neck to wonder that the creamy white in
the sky drifted peacefully, like love was supposed to be,
but that sky would splinter with the coming of another night.
He had somehow stumbled in worthiness to fail unending.
He would find his father's belts and cut them into bits,
strip the closets of coat hangers, leaving wrinkled piles
of clothing as a sign that it must end. He would tell
his fourth grade teacher his parent was dead and gone.
He would live with the janitor in the basement of the school,
eating sardines and crackers, with whipped cheese on the
occasion he cared to recall his ragged past. With a
groan he opened his eyes to the present sun blazing.
He had time, he had hours, he had told the nurse he had
fallen in a ravine choked with logs. She had sent him home
to an empty shack. He rocked himself, crooning nonsense
melodies. The shack would stay empty until the dusk.
He still loved in confusion his pa, bending to the blows
that must be needed to stem the raging tide. He could
pretend to understand, perhaps touch something deep.
He would try, cry out in the storm, he could not stop.
� 1999 David P. McClellan
