The Ghost

Benton’s home seems cool, a monopoly
on flat, low riding walls, dense and
dark inside, the walls speckled by paint,
lashed by brushes flicked with oils.

the size of those paintings, such intense
round objects, some turned to people,
granite-like faces,
gauche reflections of working men,
their women slab-breasted, their bitter mouths
racking up pain, open-shirted
brawlers taming the roadside rest stops,
covered with a sunset hue, hoping for a
union contract.

stepping back, the ghost admires
his work, stepping into character,
grabbing a beer and belching;
his world looks huge, the issues
stripped to muscles, men
and machines; no where else
to go, he tears the news-
paper in half, hits the dog, and vows
to sleep tonight.