Robert Klein Engler (gaypoet312@aol.com) lives in Chicago.
His poems and stories appear in Borderlands, Evergreen Chronicles,
Hypen, Christopher Street, The James Wright Review, American
Letters and Commentary, Literal Latte, and many other magazines.
Two books of poetry: Shoreline and Stations of the Heart
(Alphabeta Press). 1989 recipient of an Illinois Arts Council
Literary Award for his poem, "Flower Festival at Genzano," which
appeared in Whetstone.
RUBDOWN
For fifty bucks he'll rub your back with oil.
I guess I'd rather be with him then all alone,
But trust and grace for cash soon turn and spoil.
The dog that brings a bone will take a bone.
HOMEWORK
A man works all day. He doesn't worry about the emotional life of animals.
He wants to come home to a plate of ribs and a cold beer. He wants to sit
still and stare at his plate. He wants to remember one who did not love him,
and why. A man works all day and comes home and wonders if he will have
enough money for Saturday, or enough money to buy a book or some more beer.
A man works all day in the city and wonders why the people down the block
only painted two numbers on their gate and left the other to be written in
pencil. A man wonders, why the legs of a boy are soft, but when you touch
them, boys look out at the sky with bank eyes. Boys do not know themselves
as beautiful and cannot imagine how their soft legs can be as food for a man
who works all day in the city and is hungry to touch something he has lost
and must find groping in the dark like a blind man. A man works all day and
comes home to a plate of ribs and a beer and wonders where his childhood has
gone. He looks at his hands. He looks at his legs. Were they once soft? He
remembers when he was twelve and how his friend Ronald would show him how to
find hidden places while riding their bikes. He remembers going to Ronald's
house once and seeing him naked in the tub. He tried to be a boy then, too,
and stare into space, but he knew in his heart what he wanted. It was too
late to ever be a boy again. A man comes home from work tired and thinks
about the rich man in his high house, the chandeliers, the woman in furs, the
goblets of champaign and bowls of oysters. He looks at his hands and looks
at his feet. He sees the broken glass of his life in pieces on the floor.
He sweeps them up and dumps them in the trash. A man comes home from work
tired and turns on the light by the tan armchair. He picks up his book and
reads how we should be shipwrecked in faith. He thinks of the sunshine of
Sicily and the boys of Taormina, tan and naked among the rocks. Their legs
and arms and stomach are soft to touch. He thinks of crusty bread and
amphoras of golden olive oil. A man comes home from work and shuts his eyes.
He dreams. He sleeps. The night bleeds into tomorrow. A man gets up and
goes to work.
Robert Klein Engler
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