Paul R. Davisconveys the loneliness that many men face when they have been raised to avoid communication.
Words Men Don’t Say
Unsympathetic constructions,
inflexible as rain,
skies cast in brick,
nimble as the hungry lion killing;
sometimes.
Their vocabulary
seeks cavefire security,
without a cloud’s simple mass,
as a wind’s weak last breath,
grotesque as unexploded midnight,
standing stooped, one-legged.
The sun sets as noun without adjective;
men stumble into sleep
“pretty” gives way to yawning.
Rusted roses grow from their fingers,
their mouths and minds
slink away to sulk,
rolling over to sleep.
Conversation, a dog taken
out for a dutiful walk.
Men in silence say more
than they can,
straining at the leash,
cursing their fathers,
heading back to the cave.
***
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Paul R. Davis lives in Central New York State with his wife, parrots and cats Now retired, he enjoys operating model trains, philately, gardening, preparing meals with his wife and a good bottle of wine on Saturday night. His work has been published in Latitudes, Comstock Review, Comrades, Hot Metal Press, Georgian Blue Poetry Anthology, The Externalist, Centrifugal Eye, and others. He believes in a simple poetic philosophy: to wit, the joy of expression, the necessity of communication.
