Dancing Bear - poem


The Men of Garcia's Tires

have gang and prison tats peaking out
from under sleeves and buttons
arms covered in grease 
and rubber dust

watching them work
a rabbit’s foot swabbed
sound of air compressing
more rubber dust

once their ATM machine 
broke down
and old man Garcia sent one
of his boys with me
one with gray eyes
to get money from a teller
a few blocks away

on the ride over
he wasted little time
in telling me of his recent parole
how he was happy to be out
see his little girls

he lights a cigarette without asking
~you got kids~
and I say no
~you married~
and I say no
~you got a girlfriend~
yes
~don't worry the rest will come~

trying not to stare at the tats
on his arms I drove quietly nodding
as if I could relate
conscious of my own tat
sliding in and out from my sleeve
suppressing an urge
to ask what he did time for

I don’t want to know
the ride is uncomfortable enough

he’s covered in dust
and I don’t even think about
him sitting in my passenger seat
I think of black clouds
heavy with cancer

wonder if any of them notice
how it looks on their skins
how it must look in their lungs

they could wear a mask
but someone would call ‘em a pussy
and what’s an extra twenty or thirty
extra years busting over tires 
and breaking parole anyway

years away now
and in quiet moments
I hear the steel-eyed man threaten
~don't worry the rest will come~
~don't worry the rest will come~

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