The Garbage Eater: Poems

The Foreman at Rest

14 TheForemanatrest I awoke to quick movements in the kitchen, his late-night ritual shortly after second shift— almond slivers and a fresh pear cut with grave precision into fours. Plate set, again he would descend into the family room, just in time to see the final guest. I trailed awkwardly with my sleepy steps but was never surprising, though emboldened I stood by his chair, wishing every time to scare him, who’d treat me like a regular sharing a night. He stared straight ahead: That Johnny Carson’s a good man. Midwestern. Remember that. Last movie plug and curtain call led to a canned “O say can you see?” as a faded flag waved in the sun. The screen went black beneath the hum, the station’s dead air already fled. Once in a while I would recast the almonds on that metal plate as massive fingernails cut from some fierce, dung-stained primate. Later I could build them only as the inverse, little jewelers’ wares fit for a bracelet or earrings. When I sprinkle a handful over a baked chicken dish I’ve prepared 15 from a newfangled cookbook, they land just right and are delicate, caught by a mysterious grace. It’s still this way, his midnight snack brittle like ancient currency made from bits of boar bone, blanched museum pieces, curiosities. Now to hear again how he tapped a pack of Winstons on his wrist, I accept the memoir’s sentence: there coated thick with garish strokes, here purified to monologue. How does one realize the portrait when the living man was missed the first time? Thirsting for detail, I want to notice the juice on that pear, half-eaten and still glistening in the lamplight. ...