This Evening

Out back on 

The patio this evening 

A pint of fragrant stout 

 and a book of poetry by my elbow 

Crickets rasp sweetly somewhere 

Heat of the day gone soft 

The hammock beckons 

Over the trees a fingernail sliver 

Of new moon hangs 

In the far distance 

A freight train blows 

That lonesome horn 

Cardinal sings a measure 

 Of honeyed notes 

Monarch butterfly

Regal in orange and black 

 Wanders in the flowers here there 

And pauses at the milkweed. 

High in the black walnut 

A squirrel scolds. 

Cottonwood leaves in the middle distance 

Rustle in a petulant breeze. 

Then The air is still 

As if the soil was breathing 

And we all stopped to listen

A family dinner 

 Mom simmers sauce on the stove

 For the spaghetti. 

Hamburger, cans of tomato 

A bay leaf, a spoonful of oregano 

A sprinkle of garlic salt.

 One hand stirring, 

Using the pressure cooker: It’s our largest pot. 

And then opens cans of green beans to go with.

 This is dinner. 

 The table is set for eight around the Formica. 

Flatware, pink melamine plates, plastic drink cups 

A pitcher of milk from nonfat instant dry

 May I have more spaghetti please? 

Dessert is fruit cocktail 

Spooned into small glass dishes 

And each of us wishes for the single cherry 

 That graces each can. 

Please pass the milk. 

 Dad will have instant decaf after 

With saccharine In a stained pink coffee cup. 

And Mom, from where she sits, 

Will preside over the table, 

Guide the conversation, 

And watch the sunset 

 All at the same time.

A Prayer

There are so many needs in this room

This place of waiting

Winter, and we’re all in gray

Or navy

Or black

Colors of mourning

One is here for x-rays

Another for a blood draw

Here is a walker that glides on wheels and tennis balls

Steered steadily by gnarled hands

And there a cane

One lady clutches her husband’s arm

As he steers her through the doorway

They pass me as they exit

Murmuring to each other

I’ve brought my bride of fifteen years here

To start cancer screening

I swallow hard as her name is called

And whisper

Lord, have mercy

But you know better than I ever will

Still

Lord, have mercy

Amen

 

For Caleb

 He hands me a book

Will you read this to me, Papa?

I settle on the couch

And he curls up beside me

Blond hair resting against my arm

Blue eyes looking up

In anticipation

So, I read quietly to my grandson

A simple child’s story

But for this soon-to-be five-year-old

This is the world

A book

The couch

Papa

Reading

Would that moments like this

Stretched out and out

For the joy of simple things

West

1963

Dad said no to re-up and
Retired from the Army
Retired his rank.
Retired his uniform and brass.
Twenty-one and out.

We stacked suitcases and tent
Bedding and ice chest and everything else
On top of a sky-blue Rambler station wagon,
Tarped and tied
Packed the eight of us
Dad, Mom, three boys, three girls
Dad driving, driving
Mom riding shotgun

And then
West
It was June

Driving days were long long long
But we found things to do
I wrote down the names of states
From dozens of different license plates
And when trucks passed
I’d jerk my skinny arm up and down
Hoping for a honk honk
And laughing when they did

Dad drove, right hand draped
On top of the steering wheel
His other arm resting on the left door
Sunburned.

Once we blew a tire
And Dad fitted the spare
While we boys hunted in the tall sere weeds
For the hub cap
Mom passed out car games
Palm sized puzzles
Toys
Or snacks
When we got restless
John kept track of our adventures
Diary of The Blue Streak
Which must have been someone else’s car

Mom taught the girls how to use a single dime
For all four to use one pay toilet
We boys didn’t have that issue
Being stand up kinda guys

Broad fields rolled by
Endless rolling pastures
Some still green but
Turning to amber
Endless fences of barbed wire
Cattle behind
Mountains grew in the distance
And roadkill jack rabbits
Caught my eye

Binghampton NY
The Corn Palace
Mt. Rushmore
Yellowstone
The Grand Canyon
Salt Lake City
Los Angeles
4800 miles

In a sky-blue Rambler

Milking Time at Uncle Jack's

 

I rise at 5:30, light just burnishing the horizon

Uncle Jack is calling

Time to get up!

Its milking time on a 100-acre farm

And already warming in Central California

In the big valley

Yawning, stretching

I pull on jeans, a tee, rubber boots

In the damp pasture the cows are lying in the grass

And I prod a few with a hand to the haunch

Some rise on their own

seeing the others already headed

To the corral by the milking barn

They know the way and all that’s left for me

Is to bring up a freshened heifer who balks at the gate, wide eyed

Inside, the stalls are filling

As one after another finds her place

Head into the stanchion

Uncle Jack has the milking machines ready

And one at a time he hooks them up

As I wash udders clean

And the first milk

Warm still

Flows into the milker, up to the pipes

Over to the big stainless-steel tank

I get the cow chow

And one at a time each gets a ration

At Jack’s direction, some more, some less

One string at a time, in a particular order that

Jack keeps straight in his head

Elsie, Mergatroid, Brownie, Valentine

No numbers on the girls, just names

Until we’ve completed four, maybe five strings

The heifer is last

Into a stanchion alone

Where she is locked in

Waiting for the breeder

Week after week we do this

But somehow this 14-year-old isn’t bored

Doesn’t tire of it

And the cows head back to the pasture

Ambling slowly, udders now flaccid

Tails chasing flies

A face in the clouds, Square Lake