By Collier Nogues
The river its balm.
I spend a lot of time
waiting in the car,
nail file dust sifting
onto the gearshift.
Two corner stores gone
and a handle of gin
under the Walk sign.
The gin drinker is
uncertain he's here.
He's in the war.
Wind blows a hat
past the court's lawn,
a balloon
from its gravesite tie.
The graveyard is
the town's high hill.
Salty, sure, and a thrill,
at home in the hot sun
with not much on.
Reaching for eggs
in the dry house
of hens, or reaching
into a slaughtered hen,
plucking her clean--
close-mouthed,
I wouldn't say
anything bad
about anybody.
Then I grew
into my ugly,
said plenty,
dropping quarters
at the coin laundry.
The sound of water
turning over water
was a comfort,
the sound of someone
else's things.
There's only one
wing in our hospital.
It's sufficient.
So is the one road
out of the county.
You can drive
your whole life
into its macadam,
no matter. June
crosses crosswalks
in the noon air,
greasing gears
so gently
I can feel it
in my ears, unrelenting,
busy as an army
in its foxholes.
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Cheryl left my house last week with some kind of horrible winter illness, which unfortunately I now seem to be getting -- my throat has been hurting all day. I have consumed enough zinc to make my tongue fall off (not to mention to knock off my digestion) so I am hoping to be able to skip the coughing-my-lungs-out phase. (A good friend in Baltimore is having even worse health issues and may need surgery, so vibes for her are appreciated.)
Since I was feeling crappy and everyone else wanted to catch up on sleep, we had a low-key day. After younger son got back from track practice, we had lunch while watching the original Cosmos which NatGeo was marathoning all afternoon; then we went to Great Falls, where some ducks and even a turtle were also enjoying the sun. We had brunch food for dinner (waffles, eggs, etc.) and watched some basketball, then a Paul McCartney concert on PBS.
Happy birthday to my mom! Don't forget to turn your clocks if you're in the U.S.!
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