Those men who have lost their mothers

and who live like men who have lost their mothers

gather at a rock on a unclassified road

that dispenses warm weak grateful ale

and incremental amounts of confidence

as they rub shoulders with ascetics

and saintly aesthetics but still feel

inadequate in comparison with their forebears

among their number but standing somewhat apart

somewhere between the sugar and the salt

and consuming a more spirited beverage

is the monumental mason Tomb Jones

no relation

who keeps a creased miniature image

of his loved one secure in the treasury of his wallet

in common with his companions

he defends the memory of his favoured parent

in excited nearly unbroken English

and is always open to new tales of that time

before she decided she wanted him

he has convinced himself that he's escaped

the Rules of Obedience that were dreamt up

nearly two centuries ago by his former co-religionists

though he can't quite shake the unsteady feeling

that he is on a game board he is unable to see or get off

he strives to be traditionally meek but flares up at times

he looks around at the competition

they mostly wear glasses now

giving some of them a look of learning

that had previously studiously eluded them

and all of them the sense of owls

peering into a mid-distance that was

removed when no one was looking

sold by their elected representatives to American companies

that sell back to them documentary records

of their families' significant events

that in effect they have already earned

no one was looking