MEN'S SOULS

Louie wore a medal

on a gold chain

Saint Christopher

carrying the baby

across the river

used to wear a crucifix

couldn’t stand the idea

of floods of blood

gushing out those wounds

much preferred the saint’s protection.

Louie and his pals

coal hard lives

under pressure

no diamonds

just  paychecks

every two weeks-

lucky.

Some of the guys

make triggers for bombs

over at G.E.

some of them stack tires or sweep floors

day work different days different floors

couple guys even get dressed up – doesn’t matter

none of them was gonna be millionaires

not one thought their job would last.

After work

hanging out at the Broken Inn

drinking boiler-makers

somebody breaks

driving drunk heading home 
high-beams catch the rear mirror

hit the brakes hit the horns 

rattle the neighborhood’s

cheap picture windows

4 X 4 doors slam

some asshole

charges off his front porch

cuts 'cross the grass

with a Glock
jerks rounds

like it’s amateur hour

in Erie, P.A.

and Louie

trying to talk his buddy down

goes down.

Holy fuck

guy with the gun

stands there shaking

pisses his pants
doesn't know what to do

Somebody quick calls 9-1-1

Red lights flashing

            and it’s all over

                        except what you’d expect

                        from a hundred hours of TV

Later, after they book the guy

Social worker calls on Louie’s mom

Louie’s mom calls Father Steve                       

Stevie books the funeral home

and the church

Funeral home arranges the burial

Cemetery digs the grave

And the guys’ll show up for everything

                                     

            viewing

            mass

            burial

            reception

 Louie’s brother, Andy, gets the St. Christopher.

Cold out tonight

street light  

looks like the moon

hung up in bare branches

drunks think it is

dogs know better.

These are the times.

RW

Seattle

03.11.2019

(This is a fiction, however, all the characters are named after uncles.  Louie was a much loved priest.  The Broken Inn was a real place, owned by my Uncle John (not in the poem.)  Uncle Andy would sweep the floors in the morning.  Uncle Stevie was MIA most of the time.   The joint was closed down for liquor law violations.  GE made triggers for nuclear weapons.  I’ve stacked tires, swept floors, and gotten dressed for work.  Erie, P.A. is too real.  We all know about boiler-makers, don’t we?)

(photos:  Broken Inn mine; streetlight Adobe Stock)