Man Shoulders Man
Receiving a simple bump-against in a casual crowd gathering
possesses no gesture of ill-intention; it ultimately amounts to
little significance beyond a slight, surface friction. But,
at the dirt track races, the fairgrounds, on the dance floor
of a joint that’s edged and rusted far back from town and propriety—men
check to see if The Bumper’s head turns, if the eyes malice-slant.
Nudged, your dinner hot dog spills its onions, your fudge ripple ice cream cone
teeters, or maybe it’s your fresh beer slopping onto your boots—and when
the perpetrator’s countenance crinkles, you’re fully informed: funny enough,
you won’t be hearing sorry any time soon—now you know you’re into
the unsaid something. You’re reminded of haughty roosters plumping feathers
before the dawn, preparing themselves for a day of defending territory.
This first spike of engagement can go two ways: you allow the contact
to slide. You’ll know more about the animals in the barnyard
if The Head of The Bump broad-grins—especially if his subordinates
pecking close around you join him in baring their eye-teeth.
You can forgive the grazing, not knowing what it’s about,
or because the time and numbers aren’t right—
even though it makes your pocket comb and spurs stand on edge.
Or, you’re ruffled and not having it—could be it’s all about hens
or scratch—but whatever the reason, you address the offensive
twinkle and smile above the shoulders because the elements
bring on a redline surge inside your bloodstream. You want
to protect the flock of testosterone and territory crowing in your chest,
deal on threats to safety and happiness, to you and yours and
to the way you’re seen when the challenges of light come up.
Who rules the roost? Both sharp beaks bob into proximity,
full eye contact, wings pulling back to puff out the chest.
Nothing left here for crying on. Because you’re both
continuously circling in yet another Chicken-Fight Dance—
the finale hardly matters. Filling with air, ruffling feathers?
Neither wins, no one ready to shoulder the weight of responsibility.
Scott T. Hutchison’s poetry has appeared in Floyd County Moonshine, The Georgia Review, and The Southern Review. He grew up in Ashland, Virginia, and attended Virginia Tech for undergraduate work. His second book of poetry, Moonshine Narratives, is available from Main Street Rag Publishing. New work is forthcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Mobius, Whiskey Tit, Tampa Review, and Slipstream. He currently lives in the Belknap Mountains of New Hampshire.
