Kicking back to piano and cards

two men – outside
this one bar on chancery.
at back of the courthouse
and rubbing the tramway-
line road. one sunburned
and facing me, eating
a sandwich. the other
is drinking a half
foam-topped beer. ears
thick as cabbageleaves.
hands on the table. and

the first of them talking
about how he took a chance
hiring, or recommending
him hired. the second man
listening – saying "but –"
sometimes – but the first man
goes on with the single-lined
eloquence of men who work mostly
with timber. talking of how they both
need the days working, talking 

of overtime, games played
by foremen, the games
played by men in the job. tools
hung from beltloops;
revolvers on cowboys
kicking back to piano
and cards and a look at the girls.
the sun setting. me, at a table
behind them, settling down
with the sun. one mentions
kids and the other says 

"shut up." one mentions
a wife and the other says "fuck
off with that." "I'll support you," he says then
"if I have to but don't bring that
to me. just get up in the morning
when he calls but don't call him
to ask for the hours. that's weakness.
he'll know then you're weak." 

around us all buildings, hotels
down the way and a new built-
to-rent as a finger in the eye
of your mortgage. the four
courts – a landscape made
taller by men who were broke
and had children and similar problems.
one stands– he's unshaven,
sunburned and handsome, built
tuneful and huge as a digger
at a hold in the road. 

"I'm getting another," he says.
"do you want one?" "yeah,
and at least a day’s work."