Ritual of Departure
by R.M. Guest
Richard felt stuck beneath his covers not being able to participate in his dad's morning ritual. He did have one of his own, but how nice it wouldb e if the two might coincide, have a chuckle over breakfast, discuss school, his job. But it never happened. Not that he wasn't allowed. It would seem to feel too much an intrusion. What would they really have to say? Much too uncomfortable.
In some ways it was more interesting to anticipate and listen to it all. A two-legged thump from down the hall to the bathroom then back to his closet, rug-muggled steps to the kitchen where he would hear his dad preparing the skillet. Most of the sounds were ones with which anyone could identify; percolator, silverware, running water. But his dad produced noises that were truly his won. The way he'd slurp coffee from his saucer seemed to punctuate the precise wail of knife to plate inscribing scrambled eggs as though he had never left his drafting board.
The wooded chatter of chair legs backing from the table and slippered shuffle traded for the gentle comp of work shoes in the service porch. Back across the house to his dresser for change and car keys. Then on to his factory castle.
There was almost a feeling of relief as Richard heard the front door lock and steps from the front porch. "He's off again. I'm safe for another day", he said to himself.
As the car door slammed he wondered if his dad ever made faces in the mirror or spun in his chair when no one was looking or would cry after losing an argument. It was hard to find his feelings past reacting to the television or playing disciplinarian. Nothing left to latch onto. Nothing left but a whiney waterpump and second gear from down the street.
Uncle Pete
by R.M. Guest
His head and shoulders are pulled ddown some
The way leather shrinks and curls as it dries
Struggling against steel tack
Or as an aged piece of bark bends away from felled heartwood
Eyes that have seen forgings, spotwelds, laquer spray and chrome converge
Dangling from steel rod bound for assembly line
Acetylene blue eyes -
Confused, crusted by slag thickened air continue to claim,
"we still deserve"
To see the bull elephant's stand and stride down in a cautious wade
Easing himself back to the sofa
His voice lifts a labored rumble
Repeats his questions
Trying to bite the syllables
Recalling the old punchpress he served and fed
Anticipating hospice then headstone
Sponging his life clean he leans back
Favoring grave over enduring form
Captive within the last few sentences he sits waiting for the puctuation
The Coffee Mug
by R.M. Guest
no longer sits on the desk
viewing file drawer
beneath a vacuous florescent
leaving rings behind
to find the way back by
alternate hand
to its usual place.
On dispassionate tile instead
between breadbox and telephone
it hungers for shoptalk
the left handed drizzle of ballpoint on pad
uncaring for the half-swatted fly
on a nearby drafty sill.
It waits only miles from where blueprints crumble
and 2 ton electric cranes starve
on dusty solidified grease
and the drafting tables whose children
used to collect their wages by hunching and brooding
over points and splines in tall swivel chairs.
It has grown too clean
this coffee mug.