Saturday Morning Catechisms
Sometimes it was cattle,
And sometimes it was horses, but
It was always a row of
Old men in their pearl-button western
Shirts and Levi’s,
Smoking cigars and pipe tobacco,
Making it impossible for me to breathe,
Braids sweaty and itching under
My Dekalb seed corn cap,
A Peanuts Magic Slate from the Hi-Lo Grocery
And a flat Pepsi watered down by
Ice long-melted to occupy me.
Sometimes it was the errant ash
Of your Camel alighting on the
Back of my hand,
The scent of corn still green in the shocks
Flowing in through
The vents as we flew down
A back country road,
Johnny Cash in the speakers,
You at the wheel,
Me, shoes off, feet barely reaching the dash,
Head hanging dog-like out the window,
Hair tangling back behind me,
Wondering what it would feel like
To press the Camel’s cherry tip into my flesh.
Other times, it was in the cold mists of March,
Tramping down aisles of still-dead grass
Of a farm two counties over,
Peering into the isles of someone’s life,
Tossed into boxes on groaning tables
Fashioned from plywood and sawhorses.
Looking for the American dream
Among projects half-done,
Regretful purchases, and items last new in 1957.
Standing flamingo-like,
Waiting on you to settle up,
A ten-cent cup of cocoa warming my hands,
The pain of frigid earth
Shooting up my legs
Because in my hurry dressing,
I forgot to put on socks before
Sliding bare feet into thin rubber boots.