withered old man
bearing a striking resemblance
to ted kooser
is pissing next to me
at the truck-stop.
his pants
and underwear
are around
his ankles.
ok
ok
diminished motor skills
he missed the grab
on the way down,
i think to myself.
he passes gas
like a
sick cat
shakes off
in slow motion
then
baggage claim
still hanging
around his
ankles
he shuffles
to the sink.
bare
pockmarked
white ass
in the reflection
of the glass covering
over the ads
in front of my face
i pinch it off
& get the
hell out of there
before the
third act.
i'm standing at the
kitchen-sink window
of a mansion
owned by
my wife's aunt.
my nine-month old son
is sitting in aunt sharon's lap
out on the deck.
rest of the family is
looking at pictures
in the living room.
it's never spoken of
but my wife told me
her aunt aborted
her only child
in eighty-three.
did it
to save her
first marriage
to a pony-tailed
car salesman
who beat her.
now
she's the head of
hr
for some global firm
married to a large
raven-faced man
in the hospital
for depression.
one of her
upstairs bedrooms
is full of
hand-made dolls
from italy.
my wife
is calling for me
to come see a picture
of my son and i
her sister took
at easter.
out there
aunt sharon is
pointing to an
open blue sky
&
whispering something
in my son's ear.
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works with criminals. He has a Web page at http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde. He can be contacted here: jjjjhyde@yahoo.com jjjjhyde@yahoo.com.