Salute
to the Hammering Bastards
The sun rises on
rooftop Sherpas
scaling peaks
hauling bundles
of shingles
fearlessly effortlessly
climbing hammering
hollering cutting and
cursing.
They're never a
welcome sight
and the noise
drives the
neighborhood dogs
into a howling frenzy
but watch from the
kitchen window
and quietly applaud
the balance strength
agility and endurance
in the swampy heat
of early September.
Hours later savor
the burning beer
bubbles in the throat and
listen as the clatter fades
into quiet sunset
over the suburbs.
May the men
on the roofing gang
do the same.
Cosmetology
Beauty school girls in the supermarket
like white wine and cigarettes,
cupcakes and hard-cooked eggs,
hummus with roasted red pepper,
bagels and cinnamon chewing gum.
One wears fishnet stockings,
the kind with the backseams
that lead the eyes along a line
from the stiletto heels
to the back of the thigh
on up to the cheeks,
while the other sports
bare, bumpy legs
and teeny sneakers.
All of this is nourishment for
the combined cosmetology
curriculum: managing manicures,
the use of thickening tonic,
corrective coloring, the cultivation
of the artistry of artificial hair,
sanitation, sterilization, and
infection control, massage for
lymphatic drainage, and lash application.
Out
Nineteen
years old
living at
home
with mom and
dad,
he'd head
for the door.
"Where
you going?"
"Out."
Of course
he was going
out
for a walk
maybe talk
with
a cross-town
girlfriend
on the
payphone
by the gas
station
buy a pack
of butts
at the drug
store
amble into
the alley
for a shot,
a dime tap
and a game
of pool
listen to
the rolling
riotous
clash of pins,
balls, and
wood
watch the
weathered
bartender's
puckered
cheeks suck
a marlboro
in the
corner of her mouth
and ponder
the probability
of being
with her at the end
of the night.
It would have to be her place, right?
Instead he'd
walk
over to the
playground
piss on the
hopscotch
break
bottles on the
foursquare
court
and stumble
home
before the
cops
showed up.
He was
miserable,
maybe even
diseased,
and he
enjoyed it
but he
really just needed
to get out
of that house
for a few
hours
those quiet, tense,
angry
evening
hours when his
father wasn't
at work
and wasn't yet
sleeping
Bio: Murphy lives and writes in Lakewood, Ohio.
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