The man carting jugs up Union
looks a lot like Brando in later years;
a steamed carcass making tracks,
besting impossible odds with each step,
each tiny triumph over gravity.
The man carting jugs up Union
sees the world through port holes
in his wrinkled grey skin,
folded delicately as grandma’s
prized, yellow comforters;
the ones they wrapped
the TB kids in, before Old Scratch
or whomever came rapping at
the door to take them.
The man carting jugs up Union
is a sallow ghost without direction.
He has not gone out in search
of some vain glory,
like sleeping on ice for
the perfect sway of burnt-longing,
or plucking frogs from the river
only to take a bite and throw them back.
Kevin,
ReplyDeleteI like this piece, there is nice detail and description in "grandma's prized,/ yellow comforters". Great specific detail, metaphor, to describe the man's face. The man's apathy/old-age is well spoken. The last two paragraphs are nice, the "sallow ghost" feels weird (as a reader I feel like I'm doing too much reading into the "ghost" as metaphor, which I believe is a falsity, it's just a descriptor, right?). "Ghost" feels too common I guess. In the first paragraph, "triumph over gravity" feels familiar. Overall, I think this is a solid poem.
Seth