THE UNCLES
Thomas Laverty
Soon, they are just men in a room
struggling against the weight
of the shadows cast against them
by lamps in the room. At first
they tumble through a series
of realities: worming a nephew’s
hook, explaining the rules of the diamond
to a blind friend, separating two sick hogs
from the rest. At a given point one of them
scratches his scalp, outside, an El Camino passes.
It isn’t a matter of regret anymore. What’s left
is a chair to sit in, a place to set a beer,
a collective degree of solitude buzzing quietly
enough to wake houseplants from their slumber;
it is now a matter of finding a place to sit down
and be confused. These men, who once had children
to give advice to are now obsolete in an age
of disappointing humidity. They stand
as rusty statues in a town square
long absent of pigeons.
For now, all these men have is their making of lists,
sitting in chairs, parsing through a history of patient women,
cupping beers, holding everything back.