Polyphemus on His Days Off

[wpaudio url=”/audio/8_12/Poly.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

On days away from the cave, Polyphemus rents DVDs from the kiosk outside the nearby butcher’s. He watches films in the apartment of a dear friend who is frequently out of town on business and, as any good houseguest would, he leaves a detailed account of the food he ate in a note that gushes with gratitude. The giant has seen Titanic more than a dozen times, and while watching he roots for the iceberg and without fail overturns his popcorn when the iceberg succeeds. He dislikes movies about politicians who talk smart, and also stories in which people are smuggled in hollow vessels across the border. The trunks of cars, shipping containers, and oil drums be damned.

On days away from his flock, Polyphemus wears only synthetic fibers. Clad in a polyester tracksuit and a sky-blue neoprene neck warmer, he sips an espresso with a twist on the rooftop of a small café where he smiles and makes casual passes at the local women. The women return his smile nervously and ask for the check. Snacking on fresh fruit and honeyed phyllo, he removes his Naugahyde sneakers and tells anyone in earshot that the pastoral life of a shepherd and a cave dweller is not nearly as romantic as the poets made it out to be. It is a life of weeping blisters. Polyphemus tips a modest amount and is desperately susceptible to the agitations of caffeine.

On days away from near blindness, Polyphemus visits the optometrist’s office to have his vision checked and to make sure that the medicated eye drops are still effectively repairing the nerve damage of his puncture wound.

On days away from his parents’ lofty expectations, Polyphemus hikes lazily in the mountains or makes sand angels in the rolling desert hills. He fondles the branches of an acacia tree and plays hide and go seek with the cacti. For dinner, he orders a mélange of roasted root vegetables and eats them clumsily with a spoon. Snubbing his disco-era waterbed, he lulls himself to sleep on a mat of leaves and straw, dreaming of a rented U-Haul and the quiet drive to a vast interior plain.

On days away from rolling boulders, Polyphemus heads to the tavern near the butcher’s and drinks tragic amounts of retsina with Sisyphus of Ephyra. Together, they lament their existences and the facticity of tomorrow. Stifling their pride, Polyphemus and Sisyphus excel at the tavern’s weekly pop culture trivia game. Their rivals are mostly college students with chicken wing sauce staining cheeks and hands. When a trivial victory is claimed, the men use their spoils to order more drinks at the local strip club. Drunk and penniless by closing, they fall facedown in the gutter with nothing to show for their efforts except bruised egos and black eyes.

On days away from cursing and screaming, Polyphemus stands below banisters covered with ivy and serenades the local woman who most recently returned his smile. Inevitably, the woman’s husband chases him off with a loud wail and a hailstorm of piercing stones. The giant’s ukulele is dented and the strings need frequent replacing, though he is fortunate to have a generous supply of gut from which to pluck his odious melodies.

On days away from no one, Polyphemus is finally at peace and alone.