ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Poems & Poetry

My Name is Tom Smith

Updated on December 19, 2012

My Name Is Tom Smith

by Russ Marshall

My name is Tom Smith. "Yes, really!" is my response

to women in bars and cops who stop me on the street

because I look like somebody. Some other people

in bars take me as a narc because, they tell me later,

of the way I look or because of the way I walk. When they

find out my name, they kind of step back a little and shoot me

a sidelong glance. I don't mind. I think it's kind of funny. My

mother, Mary Smith, snickered when I told her. She still thinks

I look more like Charley Manson.

My name is Tom Smith and I work in this here beat-up, red-brick

factory in Detroit. I get along with most everybody

even though there are a lot of ass-holes in this world and some

of them work here. It's 1985 and I'll be dead in 2 years at 48.

Somebody will find me on the floor of my mobile home

in Belleville. Too many cigarettes, booze and a bad diet

I guess. Can't really blame the job - I'm here in this life

because I got nowhere else to be. I had a double by-pass

a while back or else some other ass-hole would be working

this press right now.

Me and the ex-wife divorced a long time ago. Our three kids

are grown up and living away from me and her. Two are

doing OK. But that one girl? Well - she's a lot like me. Likes to

have a good time. She'll finally get married after I'm gone

but it won't last. My other two will hang in there. As for me?

Once in a while after the bars close and that horny old thang

raises it's ugly head, I call up my emergency lover-girl and we

have a good time. She understands and doesn't question.

In a few years she will write a poem about finding my grave

among graves in a lifeless, barren field. Late, she writes, a visit

to a favorite old cemetery satisfies her search for evidence

of a life among the discarded beer cans and time-worn stones.

My name is Tom Smith.

But you knew all that and more you won't tell. The presses will

at last fall silent. Three black crows will stand high - nodding

on their roost. I will yield and glide away. I will take

nothing because I brought nothing. I will give to you what

I had - to hold 'till it's your time. You will remember me long

after I cock my head and plunge from the ledge.

And you will write a poem about me - or will it

be about you. My name is Tom Smith.


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.