Page 8 - Savoring
P. 8
Mary O’Connor
THE YOUNG MEN HOW TRAGIC
The young men how tragically beautiful they are, how close to the edge after all,
who ride their Harleys round corners at angles, only the camber preventing their crash, or slideskid in dust clods, lacerate knees and thighs, crush the gloved
hand and emerge after all with a buoyant wave.
The young men how cleanly, no matter how grubby, how pure after all,
no matter that lust-full their dreams hang like colorful cutouts, invisible clotheslines of papel picado, wind whistling through the diamond-shaped holes
disturbing the dreams just a little, not much.
The young men how humorful, crass in a charming way, loud-hailing, full of their stereo- types which they turn into jokes, spreading their maxims with generous carelessness, bonding with those who are like them; drinking to drink, feeling to feel,
forging the ties that blind.
The young men how gallant, how ready to risk life and limb, leap into the breach,
to plug with one finger the hole in the seawall, rise from the trenches to answer the call and run towards other young men aiming guns at them, mixing
terror and courage, how fine, after all.
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