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dad and my uncles
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sat in folding chairs
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around the
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old wooden silo,
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stories about carp
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snagged out of creeks
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with homemade spears,
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this brother
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pulled that brother
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out of niles japhet's
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frozen pond,
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steven jhonson's daughter
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fouled up
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by someone,
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my grandfather
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shot the escaped convict
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from bethany prison.
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as the afternoon
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slowly pissed itself into evening
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the old joke
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came into play,
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one of the uncles
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would hold his hand up
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with a matter
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of great importance,
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he'd rub the can
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across his cheek
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and start jabbering about
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what he'd give up
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for beer,
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it went everywhere
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from jobs,
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houses, left legs
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and decades
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off their lives.
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dad's eyes were wild by then,
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dark spot on his jeans
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from where he didn't
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shake off well enough,
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they always looked over
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at the wives
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on picnic tables,
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most of them seconds and thirds,
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they never said it out loud
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but i knew
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they'd cut them loose
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in a second
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and the way
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he often looked at me
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like the stacks of unpaid bills
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and parking tickets
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told me
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i wasn't guaranteed
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shit.
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