MY BEER YEARS (POEM)

                         My Beer Years

                              by Dean Metcalf

I came upon a man who was sawing the earth in two.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked.

"Aw... makin' a beer glass for some guy. You're the one, huh?"

"I'm the one. How's it goin'?"

"Aw... pretty good. Gotta cut it in two here, then hollow

the bottom part out with that shovel there. You'll

notice, I made the cut a little high."

"Yeah, I been lookin' for ya since North Africa."

He grinned. "Well," he said, "I was there durin' the war, an'

I always wanted to get to France. Besides, this way

you get more beer."

"Can you fill it?"

"They got this new process ‑ gonna turn all the oceans an'

rivers 'n' all that into beer. Figure to have some left over

for the others. They c'n fill it all right. Can you drink it?"

"Gonna try like hell. How soon'll it be ready?"

"Thirsty, huh? Tell ya what ‑ I need the overtime. I'll work

straight through ‑ should finish up here by midnight ‑ an' then

I'll talk to the plumber. He wants tomorrow off anyway. He'll open the floodgates soon as I'm done. That way,

you c'n start first thing in the mornin'."

First thing in the morning, I started. I grabbed Australia

in my left hand and South America in my right hand and tilted

the world and drank in long, oceanic pulls, sucking the sky in through my nostrils between swallows.

It was dry inside China when my gut muscles started to relax. India, and the pain in my back subsided.

As the level slid down the Southern Hemisphere with Antarctica keeping the dregs nice and cool, my face felt

warm, my brain was numb, and my eyes were clouds.

                              ©1973, 2012 Dean Metcalf

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