Old Hollor Head
Lose the cap and shed that letter jacket,
finger the horse head Teamsters patch and
Automobile Shippers insignia stitched
over a Judas heart but leave the heavy
duty pair of Red Wings down on the mud
landing where brogans pass the night.
Shorn of the Black Watch wool plaid
Pendleton shirt and Roebuck duck
work pants, skinned free of white
V neck tee shirt and briefs, flex those
massive arms before shaking them
off and rolling them up in oil cloth.
Step out of a looming torso, first
one foot, then the other, small planet
of your belly sagging on a peg and unbolt
the long levered legs destined to hobble
your twilight years. Arch an eyebrow
in the mirror and animate the shadow
cast by a Rushmore nose, then bleed
the valve and deflate your dime store mask.
I’ll cradle you in the palm of my hand, then
tuck you into your matchbox bed, maybe whisper
a high lonesome song to ease you to sleep, heartless
morning bearing down on your dreamless night.