The Man in the Brown Shirt

Riley 33 Michael D. Riley The Man in the Brown Shirt The man in the brown shirt appears In the alley at the end of our yard, Peers through the rose-bush screen Odd hours of the week Long minutes at a time. The tip of his cigarette Glows like a tiny fuse Among the blood-red evening roses. Sometimes he leans against the metal fence Until it groans like rusty bedsprings. He stares in at us With invisible eyes (We see them with our skin), Then unhurriedly retreats Just ahead of the police. The dog bloodied his snout Against the chain links Or choked against his leash, Until he discovered the poisoned meat. We crease the curtain edges With tentative fingers. Mother in the kitchen. Fumbles her dishes, then turns out the light And twists her wedding ring Until she rubs her finger raw. The nights father waited Underneath the roses, the man never came at all. For the rest, not all of father's rage And all his courage Could send youth into his legs Or make our backyard small. All he found among the roses Was the rough scent of spent tobacco. 34 the minnesota review Now he seldom tries at all. The price of a pistol shot He still finds too high. My sister prowls the house As if our walls were bars, Drums her bitten fingernails Upon the tables, doors, her knees, And forgets to wash her flowing day, While her eyes run away. Her young lover blustered For a while, performed Surveillance from his new car Briskly for a week or two. Now he never even phones. Sometimes late at night The brown shirt with its fuse Snakes by out front Inside a battered pick-up truck, Its fenders rippling in the streetlight Like the skin of rotten fruit. Once I spot him from my bedroom window I stare for hours from our darkened house. He never comes again. But the grimace of his grille Settles in my dreams Like the white lips of a corpse. We no longer chase him with words. He ran our syntax dry. Yet in the text Of one another's eyes, We always see him standing there. He heads our silent table; He joins us in bed, At work and school. His dense presence Defiles us in a thousand ways Each day, murders Our family cell by cell. We cannot help but dwell On what each of the others knows Too horrible to tell, Riley 35 Cannot help but hear Each ugly syllable word The man in the brown shirt Never says. ...