The Chainsaw Bears

The chainsaw bears are like Mark Hamill.
Not the duckling youth of his saber-rattling

years, but two decades after, parking cars
with David Letterman, his cheeks a mass

of as candle-wax from the surgery
everyone urged him not to have.

There is nothing for either of them now,
the bears coming apart in the driving

mountain rain that pocks their faces
into laughter’s smart dimples, claw-footed

age. But unlike Mark, they have no manic
theatrics to lift them, their mouths chipped

to a solid throat or inked into the smile
of impossible stardom.