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the bay doors are flung open
and the sky is silver and blue
and cloudy and clear and the
rising sun and overhead lights
brighten the dust of
yesterday's dead brakes
and road grime
and the dust has settled on
the shop floor and in our
lungs and some of our
lungs inhale cigarettes
and all of our
mouths inhale coffee
from styrofoam cups
someone will turn on the
radio, and there will be
a morning show
of classic rock where there
will be songs singing the
praises of the working man
along with
jingles for beer
and mortgages
and erection repair
and that's what it
takes to move our blood
and ignite our breath
as we start
shuffling along
the shop floor
like so many beasts
of a thousand
blue-collar mornings.
my house is small
and close and
cluttered and
a conversation
can carry from
one corner of
the house to the
next even with
doors closed
and it's a
Monday morning
and my wife
is in the kitchen
with busy hands
listening to the
radio and it's
one of those
morning programs
with a collection
of hosts male and
female and they talk
about the weather
and last night's
tv shows and current
events and celebrity
gossip in between
soft rock music and
there is nothing
to challenge my
wife and her
busy hands and
my kids are in
the living room
eating Fruit Loops
in front of the tv
and it's some kid
show where the
kids fly around
the planet in
some magical
rocket ship
that is fueled
by classical music
and me
I'm trying to type
in the corner of
the living room
that should
be the dining
room except
it's way too
small to seat
more than two people
and the atmosphere
in my brain is full
of ancient sex
and current frustration
and how much money
has to go out this
month and I'm not
sure how much is going
to come in and then
I think about the
government even
though my fingers
are typing to a different
tune. I think about all
that and then
I suck in my gut.
let's talk
and I'm
sorry I
have to
hold my
face but
I don't
know how
to stare
and to
prove
my point
let's look
each other
in the eyes
and I can
tell you
my stare
won't last
because
those of us
who have
learned about
love from
porcelain and
magazines
and those of us
who have
found god
in the tension
of a Russian novel
always
have something to hide.
David LaBounty lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with his wife and two young sons. He served in the Navy for four years and worked at a gold mine in the Nevada desert. He's had jobs as a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. His novel, The Trinity, has just been released by Silverthought Press.