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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.
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” B
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.