Littlecity
III.
morning sun pours yellow through
Café’s sixteensquare singlepane windows
worn wood mulleins pattern greening hope
as late april arcs and stretches across pineplank tables
young wives—some fresh and some already wore down
with furrows digging in for the long haul—
they laugh at the silence of their grimy working men
for whom silence is enough after mill racket
who tuck their raw oily sap soiled hands too coarse
for their wives’ tender still pink cheeks into pockets
with more sawdust than bucks and stop at the Longhorn
for one beer that somehow morphs into six or eight
they stay late are lonely are confused by their shiny wives
confused about the shattered wives they broke
angry at the computerized new trucks they can’t afford
telling each other how they love their old ford or chevy
or dodge or jeep held together with balin’ wire twisted
busted knuckles bloody—their bright lives going dark
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