who track sod into the living room and smell like cattle and cologne with knotches in their hips from tying dollars 'round their waists strung from welding rigs and pipelines bad backs, torn hands and ripped ligaments scarred over and healed with whiskey--
those men that cause a raucous but attend the song of every whippoorwill who take peace with them down in the holler and carry sunlight on their backs they've got bones so cold you'd think they'd crack but they've been bucked by bulls and motorcycle seats, and are quieted by the sounds of a woman breathing--
softly, slowly, in and out softly, slowly, in and out.