(no subject)
Jobless Ben
One warm afternoon, Jobless Ben
wrote a poem in pen on the palm
of his wrinkle-worn hand, and then,
from the den where his father lived,
worked and raised a family, Ben
looked out onto the busy city street
where he learned to fight.
And Diane Moss lived there, too,
he recalled, brushing dust from the blinds
with his terry-cloth, the same pattern,
plaid, as the blanket they slept on
together, and accidentally at that,
having planned to watch the sunrise
and get to second base.
But those times are long gone now.
Now all that's left is a dusty wood chest,
the fancy kind, big golden lock (no key but open),
with a few photo albums, just some
pictures she collected over the years,
wrote names and dates on the back,
took out when family visited.
He should have visited, had nothing else to do.
Probably afraid to go back, I mean, he left so young.
Barely finished high school (didn't graduate,
but he was there four years, which was plenty)
before shipping off to Vietnam, all his friends did.
Go smoke some reefer for two years, man,
and the babes are horny as hell.
Ben probably would have stayed if he knew
all the pot and loose women were back home, too.
Jesus, home. Thirty years later
and it hadn't changed at all.
Even that spot in the linoleum where he carved his name
when he was thirteen, albeit covered by a rug,
but it was the same rug his mother put down
when his dad was beating him. Vandalism,
in your own house. Don't you have any respect?
In his own house. It was his now, got it
in his mother's will (a beautiful ceremony, she
was well liked in the community)
and it hadn't changed at all. He still hated it,
but he couldn't leave. He didn't have the money
or war this time. Ben read the poem on his hand,
though it was mostly smudged out by then,
knelt down and carved it in the linoleum
with a deep blue ball point pen.
"Benjamin McCormick, age 53"
and it hadn't changed at all.
One warm afternoon, Jobless Ben
wrote a poem in pen on the palm
of his wrinkle-worn hand, and then,
from the den where his father lived,
worked and raised a family, Ben
looked out onto the busy city street
where he learned to fight.
And Diane Moss lived there, too,
he recalled, brushing dust from the blinds
with his terry-cloth, the same pattern,
plaid, as the blanket they slept on
together, and accidentally at that,
having planned to watch the sunrise
and get to second base.
But those times are long gone now.
Now all that's left is a dusty wood chest,
the fancy kind, big golden lock (no key but open),
with a few photo albums, just some
pictures she collected over the years,
wrote names and dates on the back,
took out when family visited.
He should have visited, had nothing else to do.
Probably afraid to go back, I mean, he left so young.
Barely finished high school (didn't graduate,
but he was there four years, which was plenty)
before shipping off to Vietnam, all his friends did.
Go smoke some reefer for two years, man,
and the babes are horny as hell.
Ben probably would have stayed if he knew
all the pot and loose women were back home, too.
Jesus, home. Thirty years later
and it hadn't changed at all.
Even that spot in the linoleum where he carved his name
when he was thirteen, albeit covered by a rug,
but it was the same rug his mother put down
when his dad was beating him. Vandalism,
in your own house. Don't you have any respect?
In his own house. It was his now, got it
in his mother's will (a beautiful ceremony, she
was well liked in the community)
and it hadn't changed at all. He still hated it,
but he couldn't leave. He didn't have the money
or war this time. Ben read the poem on his hand,
though it was mostly smudged out by then,
knelt down and carved it in the linoleum
with a deep blue ball point pen.
"Benjamin McCormick, age 53"
and it hadn't changed at all.