GMH

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.