Published first by The Poet Magazine
I’ve known some hard men,
Ones born with “tough”
Pre-etched on the ticker tape of their DNA.
Came into the world with their dukes up,
Biceps flexed, already bruised,
No quarter taken, none given,
Split lips, calloused fists, cauliflower ears,
No fears, no tears,
Smokers, one-swallow pint-gulpers.
Like Foxy Jack, with teeth to spare,
Just as well, had half knocked out with a hurling stick
During a game of clash of the ash.
That stick – weapon of sport, club of war,
He wielded on pitch and battleground
Hero, hooligan, saint.
Like, Handsome Paul, giver of scrum pox
And crabs.
Unlike a crab, he was soft on the outside, hard on the inside.
Who, with those rugby cleats
Would kick a man when he was down
With a lazy violence, saw beauty in cruelty,
Bastard.
Like, Skinny Sam, hard on the outside,
Soft on the inside.
Fierce boy, thug poet,
Dotted with cigarette burns on his narrow thighs.
He, like the others,
Donkey carrier of an inescapable reckoning,
Encumbering burdens of all the scrappers
That came before him.
And then came My Canadian Man,
Soft within, soft without,
Gentle hands for holding, open and free,
Pen holder,
Nervous as we drove around the old sod,
Kilkenny, Kilrush, Kildare.
“That one’s just called ‘Kill,’” he bleated,
Expecting those hard men to emerge with gnarly knuckles exposed,
Thirsty for selective slaughter.
His.
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