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Age moves in the hound As it was in me moving Through forest I found As to dog I went That year scrounging Through Manhattan.... The wood opened out, Unlikely in the city, As to boy slandering To leave his fitful home, Bright he might survive With his pen-knife only.
From American Prodigal by Liam Rector, published by Story Line Press. Copyright © 1994 by Liam Rector. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press. All rights reserved.
I was well towards the end Of middle-age before I Realized I loved saying Disgusting things but didn't Really myself much enjoy hearing Them.
Fat Southern men in their summer suits, Usually with suspenders, love to sweat Into and even through their coats, Taking it as a matter of honor to do so, Especially when the humidity gets as close As it does each Southern summer. Some think men could do better By just going ahead and taking the damned Coats off, but the summer code stays Because summer is the time For many men, no matter what their class, To be Southern Gentlemen by keeping Those coats on.
Now I see it: a few years
To play around while being
Bossed around
By the taller ones, the ones
With the money
And more muscle, however
Tender or indifferent
They might be at being
Parents; then off to school
And the years of struggle
With authority while learning
Violent gobs of things one didn't
Want to know, with a few tender
And tough teachers thrown in
Who taught what one wanted
And needed to know; then time
To go out and make one's own
Money (on the day or in
The night-shift), playing around
A little longer ("Seed-time,"
"Salad days") with some
Young "discretionary income"