Most of us are getting by

like the book-keeper who works for the State

angry that nobody cleans the plates, abandoned

and alone.

She lives for her girls, going to college

to start their own lives

while she waits

in the rain,

with her service dog

to overcome the pain.

Abandoned, bitter, women

suck the life that is left in the bones

while men, just drink

there is a kind of stoicism there

that doesn’t care

It doesn’t make sense to women

Men embrace it, even when they’re married

they don’t wish for the lifestyle—the promotion

they just get-on with it—

it’s a toughness that takes pleasure in simple delights

opening apartment windows in the winter, when it’s rainy outside

watching the predator cat, killing its prey (beautiful—doing what it was designed to do)

feeling the summer rain, hitting the dry dirt

making dew drops.

Women want fairness—they wish to maintain their standards

This poem is about

the men

who find where they belong, and stay there.

He works in the pro shop

with beard, and beer, and one last chance—each time he tees off.

It isn’t a life, left behind

But one lived, the best way he can

He watches hockey in the evenings

and

nobody knows

he turns on the radio,

to Classical.

There is much

not known

about this man

and

it is not important

that the world should know it.