The crooked men

my Dad straightened out the crooked men in the old laundry shed above the fishing gear and jars of nuts and bolts where on a rack their naked, twisted forms did hang from the neck body hair like pine-needles restrained by welded g-clamps and steel-trap teeth hydraulic arms and pullies and a shiny drip-tray on the floor to catch the expelled, blackened hate sometimes eight sometimes ten the crooked men with faces like prunes tattoos and scars and tongues that could no longer work but engulfed by obscenities as they leaked night and day in that old laundry shed and they were not grateful or ungrateful the crooked men nor were they in debt to my father and his amazing rack in these days when their hate would trickle through my backyard haven drowning the smells of Saturday afternoon and freshly cut grass and the yap of the labrador and innocence lost to the crooked men