Ordinary Time. Michael D. Riley

number one. Just another Jew master

      for the working man. Kneel on, if you must.”

      Every button memorized. Unfair every way.

      Nothing dumb about him, just rage on rage.

      A cave of rotten wood and sheep shit

      would have been fine by me, but she wouldn’t go.

      I never met a wise man my whole life,

      so we could do without that. Watch the stars,

      laugh, and paint the gate any color

      we damn well pleased, barn red to Irish green.

      That holy family set always scared me.

      Who knew what he would do, laugh or scream.

      He worked hard enough, bare-knuckled

      barrels and skids, iron arms sliding dock freight

      into trucks. Seldom touched a drop, either.

      God, I loved the ships, the oily sea smell,

      the cries of the gulls, the creak of bull-rope.

      Little did I know. All her life she never

      could say why, though once she said

      she still loved the ruin of the man she married.

      It’s a story of hope, she’d whisper to me,

      hope and love no matter what. Family.

      Even she had to blush over that one.

      She got her revenge when she was gone.

      Or I did. He ran down like a cheap clock

      and finally shut up. Hardeyed, grim,

      his big shoulders and neck shrunk to fit

      the Boston rocker on the porch.

      Every night he stared at the same

      street light beside Kunzler’s Meats, or the moon

      up and down the street length as it rolled

      over the housetops. He hardly ever spoke

      the last two years, but who could ever guess

      what he thought anyway? All I felt

      was empty when he shrunk to coffin size,

      lying there without a bitter laugh at the last.

      I sort of prayed a moment. Then it passed.

      Sailing the world slinging hash on one tub

      after another kept me a few steps ahead

      of love at least. I never boiled an egg

      since I retired. Never will. Good luck

      to all the ladies. They run like schooners

      through my dreams, but I will make do just here.

      I like this time just when the sunset tilts

      away and the little plastic people

      get caught up in their own light, when they glow

      from inside as if there was more to them

      than a 100 watt bulb and blind faith.

      She would glow. He would need a moon-sized

      mannequin and more than reflected light.

      Forgiveness big as pain he’d need, and then

      some more. I wonder what I’d do if I

      were God and he showed up. I might consult

      the moon, or a plastic family.

      I might forgive him on a dare.

      I like the little guy in his tiny wooden sloop,

      Mom and Pop for oars, God himself almighty

      for wind, sea, and sail. Float on, Swabbie.

      I’ll have a pint for you when you reach port