JIM PETERSON
THE CRAWL
His father broke his face when he was five.
He sits in the bus station and tries to grin
at passers-by, settles in and reads the paper.
For years he guarded J.C. Penney’s. He’d
stroll form lingerie to men’s suits, flash
his light on the alabaster arms of mannequins.
By three he’d slip away to the bar across
the street, maintian visual contact,
buy another Johnny Walker Red for Shirley,
“You’re the craziest man I know,” she’d say,
then leave with some guy in boots and blazer.
He lost that job when Penney’s moved to the mall.
His mother died, and the house grew big as Texas.
He studies departures and arrivals. Bends
the paper so he can see beyond the words.
On Saturdays when the weather’s good
he shows up at the lake with Shirley.
They strip and wade
