No relation between the subject of this poem and anyone–
fictitious or you know who–intended.e
Shay was never good with men.
She always ran with the ones
who ran over her in the end.
Maybe it’s all Bad Dad, she griped
to a girlfriend one night over
tequila shots and beers at the bar;
a grim succession of dirtier shades
pulled over the old man’s grave.
Lord knows they all drank like him,
proud and cocksure at their end
of the bar, little boys so pumped
on bullshit you’d think their tattoos
glowed like the neon Bud sign at the door.
She’s danced for ‘em, rode astride
their Harleys, fucked ‘em every
way and how, even placed a white rose
on two or three of their graves.
She lights a Marlboro and inhales deep,
staring at herself in the bar mirror.
She’s not young enough anymore for hope’s
fake pink charade. Now there’s only
the same slow dance at closing time,
late leers poured down onto the next
morning’s chilly cringe, rants and beatings
like a metronome clocking their
last footfalls out the usual door.
She remembers Saturday mornings
watching cartoons while Daddy slept
off his binges on the couch. How he’d moan
and curse behind her as if stranded
far at sea. Once in a while he’d sigh
and whimper Baby I’m so sorry and
your Daddy loves you. He never
rose much higher than that couch
before falling in his grave. All
Shay asks of the always next man
is that one I love you before
high times turns to sad and blue
as he commences falling through.
Submitted for real toads’ Open Link Monday.
Apologies if I don’t get round to you til tomorrow morning.