YOUR ADVENTURE

If you were twelve and Ronnie
ran over from his place yelling
there's been a big pile-up down
at the bridge, you would jump on your

bike and ride like a bat out of you
know where just like I did that
summer Saturday back in ‘53.
You'd see the tire marks and

you'd imagine hearing the screams
from the passengers when they
realized they were going
to smash head-on into the dump

truck coming around the curve.
You wouldn't be surprised to
see a crowd of people standing
around the ambulance but

you would be surprised to
see the driver of what was left of
the ‘49 Mercury lurching around,
hardly hurt, saying it isn't his

fault goddamit that everybody
in the car is dead he'd only
had a coupla beers so stop
lookin' at him like he's some

common criminal. You'd see the
police car pull up and a cop
would come over and say you
kids beat it so you'd get back on

your bikes and head home
where your mother would
be standing on the porch
with her hands on her

hips and giving you that look of
hers and she'd say where've
you been, what were you
and Ronnie up to and
you'd both say "Nuthin."

AT CANA

Must you really go? So soon?
Of course, I understand. Your
mother tells me you are . . .
what did she say . . . impetuous. Yes.
I myself . . . you may not believe
it . . . was once much like you,
though I would have called
it . . . restless, I suppose.
It's the way of youth to want . . .

And, to tell the truth,
my daughter over there,
the bride, so flushed with
happiness . . . at least I hope
it's that . . . I do wonder if she
will be content with . . .

Oh yes, her husband will
provide. I've seen to that.
He is steady, something
of a plodder, truth to tell.
Just between the two of us,
she once confided to her
mother that she thought you . .

But I'm keeping you. Forgive
my going on like this.
It must be the wine.

WHAT THE WIDOWED KNOW

We met that day on the job,
traveling together with time to

talk, gave, as is the custom,
the briefest of biographies

-- how does one, after all,
condense a lifetime into five

minutes or thereabouts --
and then fell silent. She, or

maybe I, noted that the day
was unseasonably warm which

reminded her, she said, how much
this time of year was treasured

by her husband. He couldn't wait
to hit the golf course she said

and laughed at something she
remembered. She did not tell

me what or why.
I understood.

HEROINE

The woman brings the boy
to the Bookmobile. I'm guessing
he is ten or eleven. Their
height and weight are similar.
He cannot walk, cannot stand.
She stands behind, her arms
around his waist. When I ask
if I can help, her smile is serene.
She tells me she can manage.

She lifts, hoisting him step
by step up the steps. She
sets him on the floor. He can
not or will not speak. I do
not know if his unblinking
stare is anger or frustration
or anything at all. I do not,
dare not, ask. She scans the
shelves and once or twice
coos, "We'll like this one,
won't we?" Her selections made,
she lugs him down and out while
I stand and watch, helpless.

I believe she can manage.

I have no idea how she can.

GRAVEYARD

The shuttered church sits just off the road,
a narrow track through the remotest
part of this valley.

Forty or so simple stones testify to
a century and a half of more
or less loyal Lutherans with

names from Germany. Some one
still cares. The grass is clipped
to three inch height, the metal

hinges of the gate well-oiled.
At the far end, just outside
the fence, stands a solitary stone,

shaded by the April blossoms
of a Japanese cherry tree. It
bears a name unlike the rest,

contains two dates that span
four decades. There is one word
more: "Mother." So was there

sin or something saintly that
deserved this separation, this
exclusivity? I do not, can not

know, can only wonder who and
what and why, can only hope she
knew her child or children

loved her.