Ian Hall

A Day Laborer Dreams Away His Drive Home
by Ian Hall

I want to read the love lines
in your blackwatch plaid

and kiss the cracks
in your hard hat

like a snake
tongues the hatchlings

in their coop—an old swing set
dressed in rust and guy-wire.

No I don’t care a bit to change
tonight’s half-baked channel

cat to tenderloin or a toothsome chop
just please let me watch you drink

up the throwaway slushings
of pan lard. I want you to lust

after my leftovers. I don’t mind
to mince words: let me take

your aching feet out of those boots
and massage them like I’m casing

sausage or pin-rolling dough. Go ahead
and get comfortable. I have nothing

to say about the automatic dishwasher
you never got me, or the rain gutter

garroted with leaves, or the toilet seat
birthmarked green and brown. I’ll serve you

iced-tea with a few broken fingers
of bourbon. I’ll help you savor this final day

of free-trial satellite. And later in bed
I might even make you steal

some of my beauty
sleep. This time

I might leave
the light on.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 3.

Ian HallIan T. Hall was born and reared in Eastern Kentucky. He has an MFA in poetry from the University of Tennessee, where he served as assistant poetry editor for Grist: a Journal of the Literary Arts. He has published poetry and fiction in Narrative, Kentucky Monthly Magazine, The Louisville Review, Broad River Review, Heartwood, and Bluestem, among others.

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