Red Eye Open

I would like to say no words were harmed in the making of the poem.

You see, I like words as much as some people puppies and small children

As a grandfather, and something of a pushover

I love babies, and puppies, and old sad saggy red eyed dogs

I also love sad saggy old words. The ones that can barely move their rheumatoid consonants along.

Long time ago, in a different universe

I was a truck driver for Pepsi, and in East Stuart, Florida, there was a place called Bessie and Ma’s.

I don’t really know what it was, but it didn’t open until late, like at dark.

By dark I had to be back in Rivera Beach, so I would rattle my long straight-body rollup truck alongside of the store, bouncing over mudholes and gravely bits of grass and I would dodge the old hound.

He wouldn’t move.

There is a special sound a rollup door makes, you probably know it.

I hear it in my heart, not my ears nor my mind, even.

I roll up the door in the slow late afternoon, last stop. 4 cases of non-returnable 10 ounce bottles. Tossed on my shoulder. Even though three was the limit. Safety man says.

But It was a dollar’s worth of commission. I wasn’t going to unhitch the dolly for a quarter extra and I had to take them all in. Hell, I was young. Thirty Years Ago. The old storefront windows are filled with signs. You can’t see inside. I bang on the wood framed glass door. I wait. I bang, again. In a little while a very old very dark lady let me in. I shift the cases off my shoulder and onto the cooler box. I ask if she wants me to fill the box. No. she gives me the $36.00, I sign the yellow copy and give it to her. Thank you, she says. Thank you I say. Out of the very dark place. The hound is still laying on the edge of a mudhole. Now he opens one red eye. I don’t touch him, but I lean down close and say, “hey old guy, way to watch!” then I rattle off to Palm Beach County.

No dog was harmed in this poem. I am sure of that.

I read as much as I can that Al writes. I have befriended, or at least attached myself like a groupie to some real LANGUAGE poets. I try to protect the words.

I try to make sure my poem

knows it’s a poem

and that it writes about itself,

but maybe I am the dog in the mudhole,

just one red eye open.

I look in the mirror now,

“way to watch!”