Waterboy

Roberta, GA
April 4, 1986

Outside the Blue Goose Inn, the men, some thirty,
who gather for a game or something dirty,
lean on their trucks, smoke and de-crack their breeches.
Winding among them, the owner, Tony bitches
about uneaten food, the chip and dip.
Patronize Tony’s, you get Tony’s lip.
The men don’t seem to mind. They eye the trail
that exits by the plum bush where, without fail,
for eighteen autumns Waterboy’s appeared.
This one’s no different. He lumbers out, face smeared
with kaolin from the plant. The cigar box
Tony hands him fills up with fives. No one mocks
him though a stream of glistening spittle hangs
from his thick lip as Tony beams, harangues
the crowd to give it up. Beer flows
and bigger bills; a second cigar box from the store
room. Tony tells them Waterboy’s been dumb
since birth. The dumb man listens. He’s become
a Caliban who needs the money so
when one man pushes him to start the show,
he pushes back and shoves him down. Like the eye
of a storm the men grow still in brutality.
Now Tony shoves his shotgun, a .410
at Waterboy’s temple. Then with one quick spin
they’re clawing on the ground and the crowd is hot
to see some blood. Although a fight is not
On the bill, the cicadas are cheering in the trees.
The gun wins. Water boy, on his hands and knees,
the .410 pressed against his ear lobe, gives
them what they came for. As if other lives
were housed inside his frame, the cat,
the pig, the wolf, he gurgles the bellow that
a dumb man makes. Silently, the dead
shudder. His cry explains what can’t be said.