in a bar in a little southern town
there’s a ruddy-faced man
knocking back bourbon and laughs
obscene santa, whitehaired
a man who likes to say things like
“take a lickin”
or
“sho nuff”
who hangs on the creaky doors of old trucks
watching bird dogs shit in tall grass
who scrapes the mud
from his boots on the front threshold
who has a million things left unsaid
between him and his children
because he was never taught to talk
his children have biblical names
wear a lot of khaki and knit shirts
and have faces thick with sunburns
he can remember the Bay of Pigs
Nixon resigns
man on the moon
Ford falling down the stairs
Reagan, descending from the Mount of Olives
his fat fingers clutch at icy drops
running down his glass
and nobody listens to anything he says