American Macho

Drank tea this morning from a college cup,
the product of Home Coming,
something hard
to put upon a shelf where all can see.

I’ve had my times at bat: jobs, wives, and children.
These add up,
but, still, life’s been a gamble, dice or cards.
a crap game or at table,
skill and luck.

No other way around it. Call it fate.
The planets is the heavens fill our plates
with things to eat…
then empty: love and hate.

And labor, always labor, just plain work.
It takes a lot of muscle…
rocks and dirt and shovels,
picks and words.

Pig may not sweat, but men do, some forever.

But none of that
when naked quarry swimmers jumped from stone
as white as snow to water blue as eyes
and clear,
clear to the bottom.

No one dived or could dive down so far: too deep, too cold.

We held where sun was hot and skin turned gold.
Chose life, leaned hard on luck,
and still worked hard
in case our luck should fail.

Nor was it fate we thought of:
knuckled down
or simply shrugged and went along with life,
still not yet tough enough to let luck own.

The checks came through and women, wine and song.
We spent it all, the limit
and
learned to rue our cocks and rash behavior.
Again took hold and tried to take control.

Bought cars and homes, grew lawns, had lots of children,
screwed our wives and also wives of friends;
so paid the price:
divorce and shared apartments, booze and beer,
analysts and diets.

What was clear was loss of all control,
so tried again with seconds wives, more children.
Did it work?
If so, nobody noticed.
That’s the fear: that who we are can simply be ignored,
are nothing much, by no one thought as special.

Once more we pause with whiskey, tea or milk.
We join our lives
into one grand confession: If skill or luck,
it doesn’t make much difference.
Who’s to say?

In any case, it’s best not to regret. Life carries on.
It’s living holds our interest.
We are lost
when life becomes so boring that we toss
our last hard pair of dice
and walk away
without one last look back or hug despair.