By Denis Higgins
a beast of a man.
awake at 5am, at work by 6. his hands rough and worn down
cracking and popping at every swing of his hammer.
he drank, smoked and fought in his youth,
and carried that on into his age somehow stronger with the years.
He will fall to the smoke and the booze one day unable to fight anymore.
never a foul word about someone left her lips.
she is beautiful, with crimson hair and a wrinkled face.
her body aches with the passing days.
soon she will die from the decay in her breasts.
a lost soul.
He listens to Rock and Roll, and dreams of the spotlight.
an old guitar always in his hands, an extension of his body.
His hair long and a single tattoo on his arm.
It reads “We are lost, and don’t want to be found”
he can’t walk. Confined to a chair, but he plays on.
her body is an attraction that the boys wait in line to ride.
she wishes for attention she was never given.
alone in a room, music playing and people can be heard,
all she notices is a man she doesn’t know in the bed with her
she cannot feel the life growing inside her.
The beast listens to the soft spoken while the slut pesters the lost soul.
the dinner table is filled. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast and a pitcher of orange juice.
It is Sunday morning, before church and smiles are seen all around.
the morbidity, the trials, and the coming death, and the unknown will be faced.
Today instead they smile.