there goes the big Brazilian
five years ago
he was
in work release
for breaking
into storage units
to support
a heroin addiction.
2am
and 4am count
i'd often find him
upright
in his bunk
rocking slowly
back and forth
like a metronome.
said
he started doing it
as a kid
in his
third or fourth
foster home.
silly
i know
silly thing
for a grown man
to do,
is what
he told me
back then.
lanky
like a cat.
there he goes
down Crocker
past the
coffee shop window
in a
light rain.
this dude in my bed
three foot six
forty two pounds
crawling over me
like a mountain goat
daddy-daddy
time to wake up daddy
he says in that coy
sing song
that torques a smile
out of the deepest hangover
i'll wake you up punk
i say
gathering him in a bear hug
playfully chewing his ear
your breath smells like dog poop daddy
well your breath smells like iguana poop
nu-uh your breath smells like buffalo pee
speaking of pee
how about you go potty
he uses my razor
to reach the light switch
slide over mortimer
i say
as we both straddle the thing
swords daddy
yellow swords he says
swinging wildly
right down
my leg.
the place-mat at the vietnamese restaurant
informed me
my oriental zodiac
is the horse
it went on
expostulating
about my
psychological makeup
the final
sentence of which
has stuck
with me
three days now:
you need people,
it said
in simple
5point
font.
i'm not sure
why it
took me
thirty-two years
and a place-mat
to fully realize
a fundamental sickness
in me.
i do
need people.
i've been denying it
from a
young age
throwing them off
as if
letting people in
was a weakness.
this is
a revelation
worth noting
something to
bounce off a
trusted friend.
but of course
tonight
on the porch
during a rainstorm
i have no one
to tell it to
but this
bottle of beer.
CP
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works with criminals.
