Fathers, Husbands and Heros

Good Men

In a bar, on stools, friends sit.
Beer is good in Their lives.
They chat 
of the vacant building they once explored and the park they played in,
And the girl who’s perfume made them men.  

Each coaster of every round is torn and twisted in their wrinkled  hands, 
scribbled upon, notes of this day, or this day, and that day.
Sweat runs down their Coors Light and Pabst Blue Ribbon, and,
they touch on every form of logos, somehow, having long forgotten lecture 101.

 These men know God, but priests and prayers only ever provided a deed of trust.
For them, the Lord spoke through devoured bowls of pudding,
 gallons of chocolate milk,    
 laughter well past bedtime.  
    
They know things and dreams left behind.
No world-series championships, no fields of glory.
Instead, dinner theater and hobbyists.

Garages became the arenas.
Must fix car before Monday’s shift.
Drop lights and jackstands,
Starters, fan belts and alternators.
Hand me the seven sixteenths, son,
Three quarter inch drive.
Be careful not to cross thread and never forget to set the brake.

They gesture in loathing at a tale of tequila,
 the worm successfully sworn off,
 a pact well held.

Something about a DD 214, 
an honorable discharge,
 an eagle, globe and anchor.

Catharsis through campfires and backpacks.  

Quiet homes are comfort and relief, now.
Picture frames in the halls
Vacations and graduations
Marriages and cousins, nieces....nephews.....
Certificates of recognition,
A plaque.....In Loving Memory Of......

They lean on the bar, make toasts, validate one another’s efforts.

The bartender hovers ubiquitously,
A hint of envy towards these men.
Time well spent,
Lives well lived. 
He listens and watches.

They sound like friends.
They look like friends.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i had to come and see what kind of poet you are, i would be well pleased to call you 'friend'

[Jesse Torres II]

Thank you, Emily, my new friend.