Wolf Man

Ronald Wandover

It was the sadness in Lon Chaney Junior’s 
eyes when the moon would pull him away 
from himself that inspired compassion
for him on Saturday’s lying on the floor 
with my brothers glued to the black 
and white television with the pellet gun 
crater in the middle of the tube. 

An imperfection that never distracted us 
from what came after every misstep, 
as he’d march us down cellar steps 
to line us up like a firing squad, 
a caged beast pacing to and fro,
with his belt doubled in his hand 
black as the cover of his Bible,

his features distorted red, sweaty,
as he grilled us to find the culprit, 
meting-out random swipes until 
he got a confession; his hairy arms
and bruised knuckles with black
grease embedded in the creases
formed by the labor of wrenches,

hack saws, and the pop and flurry 
of sparks from torches; his eyes
weary, red rimmed through the glass
of his welding helmet; his work clothes
stained and mottled with pin hole burns,
all dutifully done without complaint,
just as he learned from his father

and the war in Korea never spoken of,
all that made a man out of him.
That taught him of the ruthlessness
that lurks in humans, the ofermōde
that transforms us, the atavistic charge
of adrenaline that is the wrath of gods,
the edict of kings, the will of tyrants.