At Last, Atlas
By Tamara J. Madison
Bruises on your shoulders,
callouses in your palms, you built
a one-story castle with ten-story dreams.
Every day’s a holiday.
Demi-god fleshed dodging bullets and slander,
battling villains clad in city uniforms, clenched
with Klan belts, villains skulking the firehouse,
never your home, where you slept, pistol
beneath your pillow.
Relentless you reported to the alarm
in full swagger slick, never an excuse,
ever-ready to fist-fight flames,
hoist the world on your shoulders.
Every day’s a holiday;
every night’s a party.
Finally retired, but never at rest,
your trembling hands clutch
the chilled, sweating glass,
rattle the cold cubes,
bourbon-slosh drowning you.
Every day’s a holiday;
every night’s a party;
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Mind and might milked,
you pass your dreams to your daughters
as you stumble upon the drunken bed--
a few battles won, too many lost,
a party every sleepless night.
Lighter now the load of your shoulders,
sleep, Papa, sweet, sweet sleep.
By Tamara J. Madison
Bruises on your shoulders,
callouses in your palms, you built
a one-story castle with ten-story dreams.
Every day’s a holiday.
Demi-god fleshed dodging bullets and slander,
battling villains clad in city uniforms, clenched
with Klan belts, villains skulking the firehouse,
never your home, where you slept, pistol
beneath your pillow.
Relentless you reported to the alarm
in full swagger slick, never an excuse,
ever-ready to fist-fight flames,
hoist the world on your shoulders.
Every day’s a holiday;
every night’s a party.
Finally retired, but never at rest,
your trembling hands clutch
the chilled, sweating glass,
rattle the cold cubes,
bourbon-slosh drowning you.
Every day’s a holiday;
every night’s a party;
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Mind and might milked,
you pass your dreams to your daughters
as you stumble upon the drunken bed--
a few battles won, too many lost,
a party every sleepless night.
Lighter now the load of your shoulders,
sleep, Papa, sweet, sweet sleep.
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