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a poem by James Martin Spears
Coward
A shot of confidence, a can of whoopass, Popeye's spinach--
you'd slug it all if it would let you swing your legs from bed,
face the wife and kids like an '80s primetime TV husband, dad
who lives for nothing but to keep a vacuous head, work, dinner
on the table, living room time, then bed; or if choking it down
enlivened conversation, warded off pornography, and abated
a seething ardor for escape, you'd throw it back non-stop
and jab a finger at your dad's chest. Recall his rants at mom
when he called gays a virus, America's syphilis, corroding
the conscience in its tertiary stage; he wasn't promoted but
the fag was, so clearly his boss was infected? Remember?
If you could slam a shot of courage, you'd swig the stuff, a pint to
dump family life and let them, dad too, in on what you've kept hid
and not give a damn.
you'd slug it all if it would let you swing your legs from bed,
face the wife and kids like an '80s primetime TV husband, dad
who lives for nothing but to keep a vacuous head, work, dinner
on the table, living room time, then bed; or if choking it down
enlivened conversation, warded off pornography, and abated
a seething ardor for escape, you'd throw it back non-stop
and jab a finger at your dad's chest. Recall his rants at mom
the conscience in its tertiary stage; he wasn't promoted but
the fag was, so clearly his boss was infected? Remember?
dump family life and let them, dad too, in on what you've kept hid
and not give a damn.
© by James Martin Spears
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011