HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVED

Our guide ended the tour
by taking us down to the cellar
of the mansion and told us the last
people who owned the house
before it was donated to the historical
society turned the space into
a rathskellar. They’d invite
their wealthy friends to come
down for drinks but this
was during Prohibition
so they’d hop on
their pontoon plane and fly from
their dock on the river all
the way to Cuba and back
with enough booze for the party.

I can see them sitting there
around the table, faces flushed,
cigarette smoke hovering.
I can hear the men’s
low voices punctuated by a woman’s
too bright laughter and just
for one night I want to be there,
be one of that half.

BANEFUL BLESSING

On Saturdays in summer
my father worked at the feed
mill till twelve. At the noon
meal (we called it dinner)
he would sometimes graft
onto his usual table grace
a phrase I learned to dread,
a red flag warning that
the rest of my day would
not be spent playing baseball.

I believed then and believe
still he was addressing
me more than God or at
least it was fifty-fifty:

" . . . and Lord we thank Thee
for the privilege of working."

HARBINGER

Pennsylvania, early April.

Her father goes out every morning

to the edge of the woods
and when she asks him why
he shrugs almost imperceptibly
and asks if she'll pour him
another cup of coffee.

As a kindness she reminds

him there are only four
more times for the chemo.
He nods and looks out the kitchen
window and she knows he's
going out there again before it's
time to leave. She's pretty sure
what he looks for is the first
signs of the trillium.

SADIE

She's dying now.
I remember her when
she was younger

and brought her three
kids to church. They
were more than a

handful, especially the
youngest who once crawled
over the back of the pew

and landed kerthunk
at the feet of Martha
Baer who screamed in

the middle of the Lord's
Prayer so we never got
past lead us not into

temptation. Harvey Kuhn lifted
up the fallen child and
handed him to his mother

and whispered loud enough
so we all heard it: I think
this belongs to you.

No one ever heard her
complain about her husband
who everybody knew was as

useless as an appendix.
She carried on. Her
kids grew up and left.

They'll be back for the funeral.

ELDERHOOD

They’ve brought in the old dog
from his doghouse in the backyard
on the edge of the woods.

Now he lies on a rug
on the front porch and when
I walk past he dutifully

pulls himself to his feet
and tries his best to
bark. It comes out in hoarse

croaks, like coughs. He
looks away, as if embarrassed
by his poor showing. Sometimes

I want to call out words of
commendation, praise him for his
vigilance. I want to tell him

it’s all right, he doesn’t need
to worry, doesn’t need to give
the warning, he’s earned

the right to rest, to doze
all afternoon in the sunlight.
I don’t. He wouldn’t understand.

FREE WILL

So I’m standing there
in the cracker aisle holding
a box in each hand and
trying to decide. I’m reading
the side panel of Wheatables.

He passes by on my right
without a pause and tosses
over his shoulder "The other
one tastes better." I look at
his retreating back. He’s

young, broad-beamed. His
head is shaved. I think he is
not an angel from God.
But I put the Wheatables
back on the shelf anyway.

VIRGINIA BLUEBELLS

I go looking for small purple
eruptions that promise
mertensia virginica will
return. It’s mid-March. It’s time.

Surely, surely it was here
along this bank, this stretch
of stream, where the blue
blossoms waved their blessing.

I kneel, wet-kneed, to brush
away old leaves with eager
fingers. Nothing. The promise
lies entombed. My need has

brought me here too soon. I’ll
wait a day or two or more
and then return, looking
for the signs of resurrection.