Sunnyvale

He came home to two martinis
and Art Buchwald out loud
in his black bucket chair,
steam creeping out the kitchen door.
By dinner he’d rolled his sleeves,
Indian-brown arms
like snakes under skin,
and we knew to pass the plates
without a sound.
If he was happy, he’d tell us
about the railroad—
emptied the toilets
right onto the tracks—
or the slaughterhouse
or the aircraft carrier nose-up
and falling fast.
Fish sticks hung in mid-air
and crashed the conning towers
of our tater tots. Milk bled out
the mouths of glasses.
Later, he’d change
and walk to the garage,
wrestle metal for hours
and shoot the bright rivets
through round, clean holes.



Posted for DVerse Poets
OpenLinkNight, Week 33


(Originally appeared in Alehouse)