Nightwatchmen

     Ian Hall

 

wipe their asses

with the ads

 

in titty magazines. They are reminded

of what their good for

 

nothing fathers gave them

when the fine print

 

reads a hemorrhoid. Up off

the porta-john, they look down

 

at the stew that’s left

for flies. The night

 

is a slow-cooker. They return

to their black post

 

and tasks that are seldom

more than irksome. Almost bovine,

 

mining equipment grazes

the strip-job fog.

 

By the foreman’s trailer

on dual sawhorses

 

plans were laid

to level something. Come morning,

 

once their shift

has ended, they’ll ghost out

 

onto the county road

half addled

 

and wrap their cars around power poles

like a wedding ring.