Poem of the Week: ‘Rubble’ by Maria Zalessky

2nd Place
‘Don’t Tell Your Mom’ by Marcus Bales

For Hope and Anna

Your dad and me were drinking in this bar
in Anacostia, the way we do
when I can get away, to play guitar
and show the bluesmen what is really blue.

It started like it always does. Some drunk
was shouting something about the way we look,
which seemed unfair to me because the funk
you dad was laying down was off the hook.

Well you know me. I had the microphone
and called him everything but a child of god.
Some gestures were exchanged, a bottle thrown,
and civilization cracked like a cheap facade.

Stage left a hall led back outside right by
the jakes. That’s where we went. A woman yelled,
I put out my cigar in someone’s eye,
and some guy with a pool cue needed quelled.

I quelled him a bit too hard — I felt a pop
in my left hand as I gave him a clout,
but then I had a tool. I saw John chop
some fellow down, and then the lights went out.

Well we knew where were were and where to go,
him slashing to his left, I to my right,
as we were shuffling off to Buffalo,
enjoying another casual Saturday night.

And then we made it out and found the car,
a little winded, bleeding here and there,
and that’s the way your father got that scar
and why my pinky has that little flare.

Another time I’ll tell you how he broke
his favorite guitar just like a stick
across a bassist’s skull who, for a joke,
was playing in John’s band using a pick.

We may be old, but we still like to play,
and it’ll be a while til you embalm
the two of us and put us where we’ll stay —
but in the meantime, hey, don’t tell your mom.