Sunday Poem

MEAN MATT 

He grew up in the woods without a lake in sight.
His mother was a hellcat and his father was an itch. 

What's good is rarely good. 

His Kmart aesthetic is infectious—he comes over once
and your curtains are floral patterned and stained for weeks.
Always flushes so you don't know what was there. 

He's a slow waltz with a gorgeous someone across a floor of tacks.
Loves like a Brillo pad. Attentive as an empty fridge. 

And what exactly did you expect? 

He labours through rain season, mud season,
sailing a sharp-blue kite through the middle of the night. 

This is what we think of when clouds appear. 

Once worked as a dentist on an oil rig. He's what's
fresh rust and what's dried blood. 

But he's good at what he does. 

Sees daughters as spare parts, sons as useless legislation.
Watches our sisters from a webcam no one knows is there. 

It's always our fault for not knowing better.  

He has a bulldog's jaw, the heart of an old engine.
And here he is singing a sing of apology 

for arriving late to your birthday party.
He brought a present, and his intentions are as clear
as a sliver of glass in a chocolate cake. 

This will only be hard on one of you. Guess who?

From Need Machine (2013) by Andrew Faulkner