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i've never dreamt of cala lilies in the east
or a virgin indian princess
legs swung over a canoe
under a harvest moon.
it's never a maserati
redlining down the autobahn while
doing lines of coke off my pinkie nail
and getting head
from a bone-white eyed
fifteen year old
senegalese
model.
it's usually
all my teeth falling out
in the bathroom sink,
or,
for the third night
in a row now:
my scrotum swelling
torn open
by an army of black widow spiders
marching down my legs
two by two
into the power outlet.
silver-dollar eyed
guy in the corner
of the flying-j
talking gibberish
loudly
to himself.
that's nothing
we've all
seen it.
but still
after pissing
you ask the waitress
if he's alright.
he's a regular,
she says.
a Vietnam
vet.
that makes sense.
you go back to
reading a little
sartre.
he jumps out of his
booth,
starts doing the
twist.
6'3"
250 pound
bear of a man
grinding it out
like a
motherfucker.
smiling from
one end of the room
to the other
belting out chubby checker
so loud
it's vibrating your
ribcage from
seven booths over.
he comes toward
your booth,
motions for you to
get up and dance.
it's not fear
and it's not
pity.
you don't
exactly know
what the hell
is going on.
but
you do it.
probably ten
first time i
tried stopping it,
but dad just
flung me
against the fireplace,
he was a big man,
worked on the line
at maytag. only thing i could do was
sneak to the phone
call grandma,
his mom,
lived across town,
she was too old to drive,
she'd get a cab,
soon as she stepped in the house
it stopped
without a word. i come home
for a visit
after basic
down in georgia,
there's mom on the floor,
i didn't find out until later
she had a broken tailbone
from him pulling the chair
out from under her
while she was changing
a light-bulb.
dad was just
standing there silent
unopened beer bottle in
his hand.
i didn't say anything,
just grabbed him
by the neck,
slammed him so hard
his face broke
the kitchen sink.
last time he
put hands on
her.
got anything
stronger
than this?
he asked.
i poured him some
vodka from the freezer.
he drank it
staring through the window
out across
my backyard.
how'd we get to
talking about all this?
he half smiled
rubbing his face
and asked to use
my bathroom.
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa. He can be contacted at jjjjhyde@yahoo.com.