Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Bears

He sits.  He chews.  He spits.  Into a rusty coffee can, his chaw hits.

Gaze ever forward.  Whiskers grey.  Tired eyes.

Hat cocked back, he hunches.

On most days, he whittles the time away.

Film flickering.  Projector heat.  Mono audio.  His age is old.

Matinee children butter drip as he did way back when.

Dreaming escape from this small town, this meager main street, this job turned inadvertent career, this life boxed up in a grey wool bow.

Sugar laden shrills are temporary.

He switches out the reel just as he's have done before him as none in future will.

Through the dusty glass he sees dusty screen of images past vanquished hopes and dreams.

He suppresses memory.  Looking back means looking forward, and today is what matters.

Remington knife from pocket pulled.  Nails cleaned and back to wood.

Little bears and big bears and medium sized bears.

Kids like carved bears.  Old ladies not so much.  Old men put them on their porch or in their lawn.

When he was young, his Grandpa laid story of a man who once killed an Appalachian bear.

This never set well with him.

Again, he switches the reel.

Teaching girl and military man hop into car and drive away with stringed cans.

How often this story has shown.

Often into sunset they slip away from main street from this small town from this inadvertent life.

Mothers gather children and file out of seated rows.  Slow exhales.  There is roast to be cooked.

He sits.  He chews.  He spits.  Into a rusty coffee can, his chaw hits.










Dione 04/24/2012 @ 2:16PM


No comments:

Post a Comment

Post a Comment