The Barracks, by Ian Martyn 

Friday night

Dark interior

Din of voices

Clack of cue on balls

Clink of glasses

My friend had already

Escaped to the patio

Darkened space for playful exploration

Away from the prying eyes of interlopers

Unaware of the proper goings on

The man next to me

Muir cap perched atop his big body

Embodiment of muscle gut

Bare chest framed by a bar vest

Glistening black leather

I glanced up at the TV

And saw the same face

A grin of contentment

Repeated on the screen from real life

A window into the past

I looked back at him

And he flashed me that same grin

And I had found my place

Hot Rodeo, by Ian Martyn 

What would A.C. Dysart have thought

As a mass of pickups

Turn into a dirt lot

Arranged by lines unseen

Entrance framed by tall wooden structures

Welcoming one and all

I ask myself

かぞく

Have you ever sat in bed

And wondered

Who else in your family

Might be

Might have been

A unifying experience

Reaching across the expanse of time

さいごの時に

But we may never know

What wasn’t given

かふちょうせい

むこようし

No chance to explore identity

Assigned rather than found