Rings and Things (Poem)

Rings and Things

An older man approaches the check in counter.
He's already seen his dental student, probably everything else
before 1985. There are rings on most of his fingers
as he hands over a parking ticket for validation.
The american bandanna covers his aging pony tail. Maybe he rides
an old bike down the highway with a black helmet
and Durango's, following a gang of friends
who retired their jobs and youth.

Maybe he's had a bar fight or three
where his girlfriend had to watch
him defend the creed. Maybe his knuckles
have introduced his temper to faces
behind sunglasses where pool sticks,
beer bottles, and wooden chairs
are weapons and recreational equipment.

His story is hard to decipher
when he's only seen once a month.
His teeth x-rays tell his vice
for chocolate and soda from a gas station,
but not his arms cupping the baby
of his baby. His wife might be dying
to date every other weekend
since they married and seen
the country side, played in Vegas,
slept in North Carolina.

Maybe he collects his moments,
fashions them into jewelry.
Wearing his history, I see his grand-kids
outside with smart phones and mall-bought
drones, I see one finally befriending
a park swing in the summer evening,
I see a decision he made in high school
to do better than his neighbors
with their basketball goal and glass backboard,
riding lawn mower and good manners.

I see a man who's been everywhere
or nowhere at all, waiting for a ride
or to finally get off one, sit things out
until his hands are too heavy
to carry on.