Alpha-Male on the Beach

photoart: ralph murre

Alpha-Male on the Beach

by Michael Estabrook

Yesterday the water was cold

and the waves choppy, but I went in anyway,

I went all the way in anyway,

the only one in.

I swam along the shoreline,

half a mile or so, my wife and granddaughter

following along on the beach.

“Wow,” her eyes sparkled, “You were like

a triathlete out there.” She took

my hand, so proud of me.

So today, the same situation, only with

the water even colder, the waves choppier.

When things calmed down, everyone finished

with their snacks and flying their kites,

I stood from my beach chair,

stretched like a waking bear,

swung my arms around and around

over my head so everyone could see me,

flapped them like Michael Phelps flaps

before he dives in.

Then I popped in my ear plugs,

strode solemnly out, so bravely, so manly

(the alpha-male on the beach)

through the rocks and seaweed,

cracked shells and snails,

finally diving into the churning frigid sea,

swam out and fought my way

along the craggy shoreline just like yesterday,

only this time nobody even noticed.

                       ~ first appeared in Minotaur

My Dad's Name Was Bob

artwork: ralph murre

My Dad’s Name Was Bob

by Michael Estabrook

I’m grown-up visiting Mom in the old

house on Northfield Avenue.  I’m

down in the basement.  Dad’s workbench

is strewn with tools, they’re all over

the bench and the floor, but these are

wrenches and pipe cutting tools,

and pipes, and huge nuts and bolts, not

the tools of a car mechanic, not my father’s

tools.  Across from the washer and dryer

in the corner where the furnace used to be

is a closet door, I open it and it’s filled

with paper bags, and plastic knives and

spoons, and canned goods, and there’re

spiders in there too.  The whole place is

a terrible mess like a tornado came

through and I’m dying to clean it up,

it was my job to clean it up as a kid,

something I could do well, I had a system.

I notice on top of the old dented metal

cabinet way in the back are crumpled-up

blue coveralls like the kind car mechanics

wear, and my heart jumps.  Maybe those

are Dad’s coveralls stuffed back in there

like that for these past 30 years.  I reach in

and pull them out, they’re stiff and badly

wrinkled, and have dried grease on them.

I smell them but they don’t smell like Dad,

they smell dusty.  I look for the white

patch above the shirt pocket where

the name should be, and I find it, hold it

under the light bulb and see the name Jim.

~ first published in Zen Tattoo

Simply eating her salad

photo: morgan harlow

Simply eating her salad

by Michael Estabrook

Sometimes I become completely overwhelmed

by merely being in her presence,

like this afternoon

at McDonald’s with the grandchildren,

suddenly I’m choked with emotion,

barely able to speak,

while simply watching her

sitting there eating her salad, quietly, unassumingly.

I had to work at not crying,

(What a silly spectacle I would have been.)

dabbing at my eyes

with a crumpled McDonald’s napkin.

“Guess my eyes are watering

because it’s so cold outside.”

(Sure, nice try, you silly old man.)

I can understand being so smitten

when you first fall in love – how can you help it!

The beauty, the youth, the vigor and vitality,

the inescapable mystery of it all,

crashing over you like an avalanche in the Alps.

But come on! I’ve been at this now a long time,

with this woman almost half a century!

How could it be possible

that I still get all choked up watching her

sitting there simply eating her salad?

~ first published in Imitation Fruit Literary Journal

BEAUTIFUL

artwork : ralph murre

BEAUTIFUL

by Michael Estabrook

I think I made it through (keep

your fingers crossed) the latest rounds

of reorganizations, downsizings,

and vertical integrations. I know

(I’m a realist) we are never truly safe

in this cruel, heartless world of business,

or even in life. But still –

I’ve been terrified now for weeks,

dizzy with fear, nauseous over the thought

of having to empty my desk,

gather my paltry personal things

into a flimsy cardboard box, slink home

to my wife with my hat in my hands.

Through all of this frightening talk of layoffs

all I could think was, “What

am I going to tell my wife?” My wife,

my one true love, who recently said to me,

“You’ve always made me feel beautiful,

no matter what I’ve felt or how I’ve looked,

you’ve always made me feel beautiful.”

~ first published in Rattle