The Unmentionables

The Unmentionables Traci Fontana

The diesel engine signals your arrival.
You walk in leadenly, like a man consumed,
Carrying so much, including the brown bag
Fit securely between arm and side,
An answer for you, a question to others.

Hairs of gray peer out from under your black cap
Your weathered skin a landscape of crags
A bone in your shoulder jutting out
An imperfection
Like the limp that inhabits your step.

You place the bag gingerly on the table,
Forefinger sticking out, stiff and gray.
You reach into the bag, pull out a bottle,
Twist off the lid with thumb and middle finger
Letting the cap fall to the ground, forgotten.

You guzzle the cool liquid, eyes closed,
Quenching a thirst that is long past quenching.
Empty bottle, another opened and a deep sigh escapes.
You listen, one ear cocked towards the exchange before you,
The other always to the crackling from the two-way radio at your waist.

A rustling of the sack and another bottle appears.
The contents disappear in three easy gulps.
Knowledge that this is not the only sack of the day
Hangs unsaid in the air.
Conversation turns to politics and your eyes narrow:
"Those goddamn, mother-fucking, cocksucker have no idea how to run this county.
Just keep pouring it into their checkbooks and
those vacations to the Caribbean will do just fine!"
Never mind that you have never cast a vote either for or against.

You're beginning to rage now, staggering through the diatribe
With the staccato of a broken metronome whipping back and forth,
Ready to debate, daring, provoking with your eyes.
The occupants in the kitchen slide away, not wanting to trigger a flame.
Feeling as if the air is being sucked from the room.

But the fuel has been spilled and it burns
A blazing fire that ignites everything in its path.
Wide eyes dart for support from someone, anyone,
But instead see only mirrors reflecting tiny shards of fear.
An attempt at dousing the flame backfires.

Your venom erupts. The stool is shoved back,
Rattling across the floor, red crazy eyes snarl
And spittle writhes from your angry tongue.
Your words strike blows, searing,
Inflicting a pain invisible to the eye.

The white hot flame simmers and you stop,
not noticing how everyone looks elsewhere but you,
not realizing you are the only participant in your ruthless game,
not seeing the row of bottles lined up near the sink,
like soldiers on a death march. You gaze at the silent wall you've hit.

And I wonder: do you see what I see?