by Ken Poyner

Hands that could palm a basketball.
A chest you could smash rock against.
Arms thick as bridge cables. Legs
Like the trees grandfather remembers
As bigger in his youth then ever
They could be in ours. A soul
Out of joint with the body.
He smiles, and it is the beer,
A day’s wages downed in huge
Gasps, half substance, half air,
Foam in his mustache, beer
Across his shirt in streamers. He
Is thinking More, always More.
With the flat of his hand on the bar
He turns his immense presence
Into the patrons and even in this
Dimwitted neighborhood he knows
You have to work with what you have,
Find your talent, exercise
Your own unique gravity, give back
To the world that made you.


About the Author

Ken Poyner’s – “The Drunkard Tries to Fight” – work has lately been seen in Analog, Café Irreal, The Journal of Microliterature, Blue Collar Review, and many wonderful places. His latest book of bizarre short fiction, Constant Animals, is available from his website,, and from He is married to Karen Poyner, one of the world’s premier power lifters and holder of more than a dozen current world power lifting records. They are the parents of four rescue cats and two senseless fish.

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