BRIGHTENED CORNER

"The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light"
-- Isaiah 9:2

They blew into the visitors' room like it was party time,
stomping snow from their boots, laughing loud.
Four of them -- a mother and her three kids,
shouting friendly insults at each other, tearing off
their coats, jostling past us, racing to the seats
at the far end of the room.

The guards gathered around the check-in desk
eyed them with a mix of curiosity and disapproval.
Such gaiety seemed out of place in this somber space.
It was if the children didn't understand that fun
is forbidden in a prison.

The man I'd come to see and I exchanged a smile.

Any light is welcome to those who dwell in darkness.

SOLOMON CREEDY

I don't much like the cold
he said when he showed up
that day wearing feed sacks
over his head. He lived
down by the tracks in a hut
he's somehow thrown together:
sheets of corrugated tin,
scraps of wood from God
knows where. In warm weather
it served well enough, we
guessed, but a winter storm
like this one . . .

He stood there shivering.
Come in our teacher said
and pointed him toward
the big stove that kept
our one room schoolhouse
toasty warm. He stomped snow
from his boots, held his hands
out to the heat, gave three or
four deep sighs, then left without
a word. Our teacher explained
that some men who came back
from the war were not the same
as when they left. He was such
a gentle boy, she said, and he
was really good at spelling. It's
such a shame. After that we
weren't afraid of him as much,
but still a little bit.

TOUGHNESS LESSON

I admired Danny Rambler. Of all
the boys in our school (grades
one through eight -- I was in second)
he was the toughest.
Not the biggest or the strongest,
but rough-edged, solid, the first
to take a dare. You could imagine
him jumping off a roof and bouncing
right up. He had an easy laugh,
the kind that made the teacher
smile even when he spelled
"friend" wrong for the third time.
Not even Henry Cassel picked
on him. I never saw him in a fight;
nobody would have been that stupid.
That's why that afternoon at recess
when the older boys were throwing
rocks into a big puddle on the playground
and one of them by accident hit Danny
on the head and he came in the door
holding his hands over the blood
that dripped to the floor and he was
crying just a little bit, I saw
that there are limits to how
far toughness will take you.
   

IT'S NOT ROAD RAGE

It's not road rage. Call it
intense irritation. It happens
when I look in the rear view
mirror and see a tail-gater
on my tail, so close I can
read intense impatience written
on the driver's face. I check
my speed. I see I'm moving
fast enough, right at the posted
limit or even some above.

Here is my temptation -- to slow
down, slow down even more.
I'll teach him (or her)
a lesson is my thought.
And sometimes -- I confess it --
I do exactly that. But other times
I fantasize: I hit the brakes
real hard, The guy behind me
rams my rear, is clearly
in the wrong, will have to pay
a fine, bear the cost of all repairs,
and pay my whiplash bills
for therapy, months of it.

I know, I know. This is crazy talk.
It isn't, as I said, road rage.
But it's getting pretty close.
   

AN INVITATION (updated)*

The Auto Repair Shop

I'm going into town to get the oil
changed on my car; the shop is near
the strip mall, just a mile or so from here.
I shan't be gone long -- you come too.

They'll find, I'm sure some other things
they'll say that must be done,
like brakes and tires and batteries and on and on and on.
I shan't be gone long --

On second thought, I probably will --
but why don't you come anyway.

*A parody of Robert Frost's "The Pasture"

LEARNING TO SPIT

Our house stood at the top
of Temperance Hill where

the road to Lititz intersected
with Fruitville Pike. Every day,

at precisely seventeen minutes
after five, a grey car would

arrive at the stop sign. The driver
would open his door, lean out

and spit on the macadam. My
mother, her face twisted

in disgust, explained that
the filthy habit of chewing

tobacco required frequent
expectoration. When she

wasn't looking, I'd sneak into
the kitchen, grab a handful

of raisins and tuck them
in my cheek. I practiced

by pretending to drive
a car and opening a pretend

door at a pretend stop sign.
Spitting, I was sure, was part

of what it meant to be a man.
My mother just didn't understand.

WRITING POETRY

No, you will not win a Pulitzer.
Yes, by comparison with Yeats
(or fill in the _________ with your
favorite), what you create
is small potato stuff.

Do it anyway. Make it as good
as you can. No weekend
golfer thinks he is Tiger Woods.

So drive it down the fairway.
It may land in the rough.
Don't bother keeping score.
It's your potato stuff.