Blue Collar Love

You may think
I go through the slow-turning wheel
of my work day busy
with numbers and schedules,
chores small and large,
not stopping
to open the door
for you to walk into the many rooms
inside my head.

But there are few of the good things
I see, untouched by the dirt and grime of my work,
that do not cause me
to hook a chain to a glimpse of you
and pull you to me,
nor bring me to forget the ache of toil,
the hammer-bruised finger
or the sting of carbon cleaner in a cut.

Just tonight, when I saw
above the swing of my sledgehammer
and the fumes of diesel and sweat,
the three-quarters moon
playing games with the dark passing clouds
I wished they were you and I.

And when I saw long pines shaking together,
dancing to the tune of the wind
as it whistled its way north,
I was swept away in a flash
to the many jigs and diddies
we dance and sing together,
you shaking what your mother gave you,
your head bopping, mouth open in an Ohhh,
and me unnoticeably scrambling for lyrics
to spark a laugh from you.

Every day, each time
life plays the bully
and sits atop me,
pinning me down,
leaving me trapped
and feeling weak
under its heavy knees,

you come along,
the quiet girl in the playground
of this hard world,
to reach for my hand,
not caring that my hands aren't soft,
that I have dirt under my fingernails,
or that my hair is mussed.

The Snore

Every night,
as sure as the presence of moonlight
over the roof
or the whir of the heater
humming through the air ducts,
every night,
like clockwork,
I snore,
and every night
it drives her mad.

And every night,
when the bells of my breathing channels sound,
I'm pulled from my pool of sleep,
pushed and poked
back into the darkness of our room
by an elbow, a straight jabbing finger,
exasperated please of Stop snoring,
Enough, Stop it, You're snoring.

Then it's time
for my quick grumble of apologies
that precede a repositioning curl
on my side--
the non-snoring position,
so they say--
trying to put myself
into the pose of a baby
quiet in the womb of blanket and bed.

But every time,
trying to sneak off into a dream,
I fail to blend in
with the silence of the room,
the whir of the fan,
the sound of stillness and shadow.

Each time, rather than wade out
into the waters of sleep,
rather than dip my toes in first
to check and feel,
I cannonball into the still surface,
full of snore and grunt and gruff
like a discontented hog

truffle-searching in a queen-sized bed,
each time
like a freight train with an unsteady motor,
each time
off-rhythm and out of sync,
sometimes snoring so loudly
that I wake myself
and beat her to the punch
or jab
or poke.

Thanksgiving Day 2009

When they come for you
they wear black pants and shiny black jackets
to keep them warm
and slanted expressions
and soft words and calm gestures
in a faded blue Ford Caravan
with a light rolling stretcher.

They tell your wife that it is customary
for family members to go into the other room
because it's sometimes hard to watch.

Then they move the kitchen table,
the chairs, the cat bowl,
the newspaper on the floor,
move you and zip you up,
push and pull you on your new wheels,
bump you through,
against the counter, the screen door,
down the concrete steps,

then, lining you up
straight with the back of the van,
they put their backs into it
and push hard,
fitting you in like freight,
head first,
the same way you entered
this world.

My Parents Pray

At odd hours my parents pray.
Every day
they are ready
to pray, ready
to turn down the burners,
mute the tv, place bookmark
or punctuate a conversation.
Ready for a phone call,
an unexpected visitor
bearing bad news. Pray,
pray for them, me, him, her.
Pray.

I have seen their work firsthand,
laws of the universe annulled
for two petitioners.

Sometimes he prays in a song,
sometimes while thinking out loud,
once I heard him praying in the shower.

She prays in her room in the early morning
a prayer of pain, of longing,
or in her car, eyes open,
a quick God help them
for a noisy passing ambulance,
a prayer I've inherited
still not knowing who I am praying to.

Many times I have heard
the rising and falling of their prayers
filling the empty spaces of room and hall,
like a storm siren,
like a sonic piston,
a wailing inflection
pumping away prayer after prayer.

Theirs is a song without rhyme,
lyric-heavy with Jesus and Oh,
a mourning for the hurting,
the only hope for a neighbor, family member,
friend, friend of a friend, friend of a friend
of a family member.

Each time they make their stations,
get into praying position,
turn their eyes inside and pray,
wrinkle their brows and pray,
bend their necks and pray,
sometimes asking, sometimes demanding.

At times the prayed-for is present,
and they go to work
with their hands,
sometimes wet with olive oil,
always tense,
wanting to heal so badly
that they grip the forehead with force,
palming the brow.

It feels good on a headache
or a wasp sting,
sometimes it takes the pain away.

Deleting Terry

feels strange and wrong,
no one answers there now.
But I hold my phone and press the button--
ten digits disappearing,
more like
the last drive of the hammer,
last shovel of dirt,
darkness entering the coffin.

I almost wish to keep him here,
little ember of a flame I never warmed up to,
landlord with a tepid, crooked smile,
the man who gave me keys,
fixed my sink and put new filters in.

Once while in his office
we talked about drinking wine
and the beauty of Arkansas,
how her north is so much prettier,
how the land rolls
in still waves of earth.
He gave me his number
and told me my neighbors were nice,
that Kyle likes to grill,
Jim across the way is a policeman,
and everyone gets along.

Invalid

You were always the troubled child,
the one whose plate for attention
was bigger than the rest.

When you cried,
when you kicked,
when you screamed
arms stretched out to appease.

They made you the boss
and put you in the highest chair,
cleaned and fed and clothed you,
their little goddess.

Because they never let go
of your hand, you never learned
how to use it.
Because they never told you no,
you never learned its meaning.
Because they fed you ease,
you were never equipped to digest difficulty.

You never stood a chance.
In fact you never stood on your own at all,
because they held you,
because they piled your plate with sugar,
because they kept the green beans for themselves.

Every day they tried to keep you
in that small frame, in that photo of you
as a child. Every day
they squeezed you tighter into there,
packed you into there
with their awful love,
rocked you, held you so you couldn't move,
made you ride the hip
so you never learned to walk.

Now late in your years
you stumble
and fall.

They stay up late into the night
worrying what people will think,
asking one another where they went wrong.