Steve
Reeves
by Peter Mladinic
Steve Reeves was
taller than my father.
He had thicker
hair,
and probably
better feet than my father.
In 1947 he was Mr.
America,
in 1950, Mr.
Universe.
His pecs a sight
to stun,
a sculpted
horizontal of flesh that spoke
strong and softly. Beauty
rippled through
his thighs, biceps, lats.
A beauty parlayed
into gladiator movies:
Hercules Unchained, Duel of the Titans.
By then he wore a
beard.
After Hollywood, a
quiet life
on his Oregon
ranch, he rode horses,
baled hay, put
time in the gym,
ate his grains and
greens
and never abused
drugs or alcohol.
After a while we
all start to fall
nearer the ground.
Reeves stayed toned,
knew to move,
exercise, keep away
from saturated
fats.
My father’s only
exercise,
to mow the lawn,
take out the trash,
walk a little
black mutt on a dirt path
after a day of
shuffling papers at a desk.
He drank a
little, smoked often, ate anything
set in front
of him. Even when young
he was no Mr.
America. Yet he outlived
Steve Reeves
by eleven years.
Reeves
played a pirate on a ship.
Now they’re
both on that ship of death
out on the ocean.
Peter
Mladinic’s fifth
book of poems, Voices from the Past, is available from Better Than
Starbucks Publications.
An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New
Mexico, United States.
