October 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Five
Steve Brightman
It all knocks hard

He put out his cigarette
in a knot on his
wooden right leg
and his lips
glistened
with a celibate
maple-ocean spray.

He wouldn't stop
staring at me,
the oldest son of
his youngest
grand-daughter.

"Hey kid.
You're all happy now
with your
apple blossoms
and your
sugar plum fairies,
but that'll
crash down
soon enough.
Just wait till
your dog dies.

Then you'll get it."
RETURN TO OCTOBER 2005