Unmade Sheets

Stephen Mandes III

He smells un-fresh

like bed sheets tucked away

out of the sun for a year

locked up away from a box of Tide-

unmade up -

dressed over with bed covers stained with last season’s bark

tracked in after a day of hunting.

His sweaty uncombed hair screams for a clean man’s freedom-

crud has built up underneath the rough skin of his greasy face

freshly bathed with the slick lubricant of sweat

pumped out of pores pumped full of holiday schnapps

poured hours ago before the caroling began.

I fear for his feet-

knowing that unseen skin sits cracked in between his toes

and I fear for his underarms

knowing that holiday aromas leak into unkempt knotted hair

guarding a growing belly that spills slowly out

with each passing new year

I try to push away my fear for his liver

wondering how long that scarred factory can keep up

with the motivation

that steers him daily through each day and day

I’d shake him off in anger if I could

but a brother’s smell stays

and as I watch him stir up eggs on another Christmas day

I push fear for every tiding away

and with goodwill to men wonder

if girls on call in the old un-ruled Wild West

made their dusty suitors sober up first in a trough of unclean water

before taking them onto tainted beds

freshened up with sheets spread out over unmade cowboy lust.