Silence of Hard Men

 

Cruel. Hard. Loved to paint. Can it be?
Can a man be so hard and apathetic
and paint such an astonishing tiger?

I remember the big mustache, no lips,
some hard creased up eyes
that looked like screams in a hurricane
and a pipe.
Skin loose and oily, like baking paper.

Been told a hundred stories; didn't seem the type
to have many friends. Hands made for bricks,
bricks made for him. A god of bricks - great boxer.
Hands were made for what a man's should be.

Killed black men in Africa
with a gun, and maybe something else.
They had something else. He had six kids
and none of them held him with any endearment
but they respected him, respect his memory.

Six kids, and probably didn't know
it's as natural for a child to dance
as it is to breathe.

Cruel. Hard. Loved to paint. It's often the best way,
I know that. Your kids and wife don't.
I remember play-fighting in your living room
and I bit your hand. Blood was red.
I felt bad. Felt bad for a kind, old man.