Chris
Causey
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1 poem -
Ash Boys
Cunning sneaks the prism weed from its cigar-box stash.
Idealist, Conflicted and Guardian meet him,
with Dr. Grabow pipe,
tin-foil wrapped six-pack,
and Seagram’s Seven poured in Tupperware.
Every boy around this greenwood fire has stolen from his father,
and the ground beneath their crossed legs
squirms, while shadows of bicycles
dance on slanted sand pit walls.
Conflicted sucks the pipe and coughs.
Idealist holds his breath for the all-seeing eye.
Guardian stands shirtless with a branch stripped of bark.
And Cunning refills the pipe while taking little.
In the doze that follows tin cans and Tupperware,
a bearded man in green coveralls steps from the shadows.
“I aint the law,” he says showing his palms,
and as sparks move upward in his eyes,
he proclaims, “I’m here to introduce you to the night.”
Idealist longs to know his name.
Guardian sharpens his spear.
Conflicted thinks about the glare of fluorescent kitchen lighting
and what he’ll chew to hide his breath.
Then Cunning hops up, jingles his stuffed pockets at the man and says
his father’s coin collection (worth thousands) will see him through
this night
and many others.
With that, the man steps into the fire and laughs.
Flames lick up his coveralls and beard.
White legs scatter,
and the sounds of pedals and tires throwing sand
quietly fade
like the falling residue that follows burning.
