Lisa Brockwell #18 Free rein

Free rein

He liked to have a toasted sandwich

for breakfast. That morning, it wouldn’t work.

Made it over, three times, the bread kept sticking

to the Teflon, folding in on itself.

Did his blood pressure rise?  Did he still have

a wife?  Did she notice the danger

in his mood?  He was the coach of the football

team, well respected, given free rein

with the sons of the town.  He was not

a bad man.  But he was left behind.

The tide went out, he was left standing there,

fishing rod in his hand.  Not just the rod,

he had all the gear, lovingly made by hand,

some of it passed down from his father

and his uncle, an esky to keep his drinks,

cold, a canvas bag for the fish.  But the tide

went out so far – two miles, three miles –

out of reach.  He could see men in the distance

on that new shoreline, they were dancing.

He couldn’t dance.  Some of them wore lycra

and they were not ashamed.  The world had changed.

He packed up his fishing gear, carefully.

He couldn’t find a way to that other shore.

He took his pig hunting rifle to football

training and shot himself in front of the boys.

He took the captain with him.

* A dark fragment, from a dream.   I've been thinking a lot about masculinity and how much wonderful, positive change there has been in my lifetime in what is socially acceptable for a man to do and be.   But there's such a dark and primal, violent underbelly that reacts to change too.