When men come to streets

This is a poem I wrote, centred around the recent gay bashings happening on Davie Street.

You can reach me at: eightmillionbrendans at yahoo.ca with comments.

When men come to streets

When will men stop coming to that street

when will they stop in that street where people live

and fall in love and practice work when will they stop

coming to that street with their shirt sleeves rolled short to the tops of their shoulders

in bars and assuming a wide stance grasp a pool cue

and knead the wood with the same motion they like women

to touch them after long hours labouring alongside dedicated machinery

when will they stop

placing that pool cue on the soft felt to move past mirrors

that display the brass taps and glasses to the citizen they deem foreign and

punch him so that he falls while the televisions continue

and the streetlights outside stay on and some people still aren’t looking

when his head hits the ground and others hover above until the sirens rain down

and now no one meets the lips of their drinks with their mouths

though uneasy hands still force some cherries to tumble for escape within the trembling ice

 

when will men have put so much yellow tape on that street those who live there

will be forced to memorize the ancient magazines of waiting rooms

and assess the damage done from the look in the eyes above the white mask

of the doctor who tells them that friend who used to say genteel things

can now only use his mouth to let the hose in from

the machine to help him breathe

 

when will the men who live

on that street have seen so much killing they take it

like a bird to their breast and don’t let it go when will the lampposts flying their flags stop

snaking in the wind because they’ve become shields when

will they cut the head from their street to make a moat

when will they start answering doors with shotguns and cracking their knuckles

instinctively meeting strangers when will knives always peek from their socks

like little sleeping friends

when will the politicians turn into generals in a country without immigrants

when will they fly the parade floats in formation and have every citizen of the street enlist

until all other men will be unable to stop at the street to ask for directions

without being marched away at bayonet

 

when will it be so that other men have to go home

and knock their boots on the porch stoop and take their babies

from the crib by the waist or kneel before the bellies of their women

and pressing their heads to the swelling life inside whisper

unfortunate duties before taking their last meal in their big hands

cutting flanks from the meat looking up at the picture of their father and then follow

the torches to community centres

 

when will men assemble and march

to that street to meet the men from that street 

when will their arms collide under steel when will the grenades be tossed

into trenches that were stores and the rockets sound and the rubble

 

when will the men go quiet again

when will they retreat when will they wake up again

and go brush their teeth when will they drink coffee with no cream

and the appropriate amount  of sugar

when will they go back to work without black eyes

and not use too much paper and finish the day

 

at their children’s baseball game

when will they watch the home run from the bleachers and be happy

when will they walk home with ice cream

when will the evening be nice enough when will it be mild out

when will they stop introducing us to killing like the new form of weather

something we can’t control but live with

 

every day when will they tuck the kids in

and watch the evening news and when they turn it off when will they hear

the ocean roaring behind them digging itself into the thinning pitches of salt rock

when will that force be enough for everyone

when they cross the hall from the bathroom and pausing in the doorway

framed like a wise man when will they look at a bed and realize

that they have to put their arms down in order to go to sleep

 

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