DRIVING HOME ON SUNDAY NIGHT

From the back seat where I sit
with my sister, I peer through
the windshield at oncoming headlights,
wondering why my parents are so calm.
How could they not know what I know:
that the Rapture is happening,
is taking place this very moment,
as we head home from my grandparents'
house where I had seen with my own
eyes the headlines of the newspaper
left lying on their dining room table:
"Airplanes Plummet to Earth,
Pilots Disappear"; "Flames Devastate
East Coast"; "Tens of Thousands Reported
Missing." Quotations from the Bible
salted the pages: "Two shall be in the field;
the one shall be taken, the other left."
"There will be famines and pestilence and earthquakes."

How am I to know the "newspaper" was
only a religious tract designed to frighten sinners?
So I sit on the edge of the seat,
my questions stuck in my throat,
terror-paralyzed, and see, off to the left,
the airport tower light sweep
its circular path across the landscape,
surely searching for the missing thousands.

BILL MILLER

He came to the feed mill where
my father worked but I could
tell the first time I saw him
he could not possibly be
a farmer. Not with that red
convertible, the hat tipped
at a jaunty angle, the tiparillo
clenched in his teeth. I admired
his loose-limbed climb up
the office steps, his effortless
way of making himself fully present.
He's a salesman, Dad said, and
a good one. Unlike our customers,
he rarely commented on the weather.
He talked baseball and cars,
told mildly off-color jokes.

We were country.
He was city.

I was fifteen.
I considered possibilities.

TRAIN TRAVEL

The railroad track that ran
behind the feed mill
where my father worked
could take me anywhere.
Balancing myself on a rail,
I would walk, staring into
the distance and go to
Philadelphia, New York City,
London, Paris. Along the way
I amazed everyone with my
intellect and charm, always
properly understated, of course.
I overheard beautiful women
whispering to each other: "So
young and yet so deep." I did my best
to hide my smiles. Then, stepping
off, I'd grab the corn mash bucket
and go to feed the chickens.

WHAT NOBODY TELLS YOU

What nobody tells you
when you walk out of the hospital
holding your first-born in your arms
and she is so bundled up against
the January wind that all you can see
is her nose and a grin has
exploded on your face, that you will
spend a significant part of the rest
of your days worrying about her,
even when she is thirty-six and
checking into the hospital for what
she assures you is "minor surgery"
and ends her phone call with
"Relax, Dad, I'll be fine."

THEOLOGY/BIOLOGY

Ask, if you must, the questions that persist:
    How did it all begin?
    Is there life after death?
    Does God exist?

This morning, as I watch a bee
dive deep into a blossom on our
Rose of Sharon shrub, my questions
are far simpler, but no less cosmic:
    How does it know to go there?
    What compels it to do so?
    What would it be like to be a bee?

We live surrounded by glorious mystery.

RAPPROCHMENT ATTEMPT

The terrier who lives next door
does not like me. He considers
my presence in our backyard

a personal affront. Why? I sometimes
ask him from the safety of my side
of the fence. What have I ever

done to merit such fury?
His answer is given in such filthy
vocabulary I choose not to write

it down. Yes, I say to him, it's true
we disagree about foreign
policy, the solution to the national

debt, and the need for tax reform,
but can't we at least
treat each other with civility?

FIX-IT MAN

I call, tell him about my problem.
"There's this floor lamp that . . ."
He says he'll stop by, take a look.

My efforts at remedy have produced
the usual frustration and mild
cursing that accompany my attempts

to repair all things mechanical.
He arrives, analyzes the situation.
"Maybe I should toss it out,"

I say. "Some things aren't fixable."
He turns his face from the lamp,
gives me a wry grin,

makes a few dextrous twists.
"There," he says. "That should do it."
I plan to vote for him for president.