Blinds Open to the Moon

Blinds Open to the Moon

He rises every
morning
to bitter coffee,
and bran,
fetches the paper
and has his three
Lucky's.

Nine hours at a sawmill,
three in the vegetable garden,
dinner of beans
and bed.
His wife died five years ago,
he grieved,
as he should,
as he must,
his vows complete.
His daughter lives off the
mountain in a cramped
trailer
with her husband
and four girls.
She comes up on Sundays
to wash his dishes
and scrub his toilet.
When she leaves,
on Sundays,
Bill comes over.

He and Bill sit and watch
the race,
their feet propped side
by side
on the flower print sofa.
Holding hands,
between tv trays
loaded with Kool Aid and
pretzels
they watch
Bobby Labonte
pull away from the pack.
Two aging bachelors,
their vows complete.
Bill would move in,
but roommates at seventy
wouldn't cut it at the
sawmill.
So they hide,
behind blinds
wrapped in age,
love,
and proven
manhood.

But lately there have been
whispers
down at the sawmill,
at Friendly Lunch on Main,
behind curtains,
over coffee,
or between hushed cotton.
And then lately there have been
signs
posted in his yard
with Bible verses,
from Leviticus
and Romans 1:26.
Someone keyed
FAGGIT
into the door
of his lavender Dodge
Stratus.

Then yesterday Bill
called,
said he couldn't come
over,
hoped Bobby Labonte
took the cup
this year.
His voice was strained and broken,
tender
yet dead as old
boards.
So he watched the race alone,
didn't touch his soda
or pretzels,
and then turned out the light,
the blinds open
to the moon.

He rises every
morning
to bitter coffee,
and cheap Scotch.
The papers pile up while
he has seven
Lucky's.

Nine hours at a sawmill,
three hours alone,
dinner of beans
and bed.
Blinds open to
the moon.