Byron Poem by Francie Lynch

I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron (I know, it's too good to be true) , not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your ass.” every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-tit, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo ignoring the “Don't run with scissors. You'll put your eye out.” warning from Mother Baggins, than he does LB. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary that he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the penetration, ” he'll quip. The two flaps of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ass.