Patti Forehand’s most recent poem to appear here was Dear Father (August 2010).

Rooster
By Patti Forehand

It was the 70s and he wore desert boots with Levi’s
and spoke in a voice deeper than most other men.

He smoked Marlboro Reds without emptying the
ashtrays and didn’t sip his liquor.

His cotton plaid shirts were not flannel and
the shiny buttons on them snapped shut.

In spite of his father’s constant berating and
prodding, he did not need to squat to piss.

When his father flexed a bicep and asked him
to get up there and crow, his manhood felt questionable.

He slept soundly by day and went by himself to
a nameless bar across town at night.

He never brought a girl home and on no occasion
smelled of indiscriminate perfume.

Regardless, his disguises were formidable
and his closeted confessions were moot.

His secrets, though never whispered out loud,
were held safe in curious minds.

He lived in the South, which is why he left for the
City of Angels with no money or plan of action.

His shame and his need outweighed his empty wallet
and his Mother’s pleading and mounting fears.

A change in geography helped, allowing his Virginia home
to become a place to visit with a “friend” or a “roommate.”

Had he a crystal ball he would have known that the passage
of time and distance wouldn’t change the senior that made him the junior.

It follows that the death of his namesake would never truly
free him if he couldn’t become comfortable in his own skin.

He chose to remain chained for no battle was ever fought or won
that would allow him to be released; no pill strong enough and no drink hard enough.

His secret remained barely spoken among those who loved him the most.
Had he lived another decade I like to imagine that he’d have learned to crow.