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Getting Laid
The bars never meant
anything
to me, except to get
laid. Though occasionally
there was an intelligent
soul sitting next to me,
expounding on
e.e. cummings or
Hemingway
or Pound,
buying the drinks.
So, Iıd listen,
with my eyes
wandering the bar
for breast or leg, but
always searching the eyes
of every woman
who walked in the place.
Hoping, maybe, for one
with a brain
that liked to fuck.
Worker 1943-46
He had Churchill's face
and Hitlerıs body,
standing behind a
a poster of Roosevelt
(in his wheelchair). I
was just born
on the
other
side of the
world. My daddy
drove a Willyıs
panel wagon. They
were bombing
London, and bombing
Indiana gravel pits...
for the sport,
and telling lies
to their priests. He was
pouring
liquid
steel
from huge vats, drinking
Old Grand Dad
by the gallon and
breaking the hearts
of truck stop whores,
who had
brothers and husbands
dying overseas
for all of us.
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