THE SO TO SPEAK FARM

I learned to play cards on the so-to-speak farm.

Pinochle, Cribbage, Pitch, Set-back,

meadow and syrup bucket sitting,

watching the goat mow down burdock and

white, sweet clover.

You shuffle sharp and fast,

put baby powder on old cards

make them slide and snap.

You throw back bad hands.

We chucked wood into the cellar,

split it, fed the furnace,

watched the chimney burn.

You hated to tear that wood stove out,

your grandmother's bath tub rotting through the floor.

You gave up the goat,

the lagoon fills in with cattails.

Elderly trucks rust tenderly in the prickers.

Now you have to mow the lawn.

You pace the acreage.

You call saying we have a Scarlet Tanager this year,

mom has an Indigo Bunting.

You say, the gardens are good,

but the apples won’t fruit,

Next door, Ed Curtis stole all the bees.

WAITING TO BREAK

Faith is the generosity

you allow your hands

when assembling

all the parts

waiting

to break.

Grace is the generosity

you allow your faith

when bracing

for the breaks.

How do chains tangle

alone in velvet?

I think I can understand how

they’re lost

in the soft dark

of their boxes.

Give me a needle I'll wheedle the knots

to fit my wrist.

Tell me now

       grace

       how generous

       is this?

To tame your remains

I’ll make stone soup

no meat

no bones

for broth

the recipe lost

or never listed

left here

a fixture

of an empty kitchen

I tried

not to listen

too loudly

but I heard.

Going to bed

in my Italian Linen dress.

Preparing for sleep

could lead

to some

foreign street

in the city of dreams where

I’ll say

       I'm sorry

I'm not always true to you.

I prefer better

versions of the truth.

Consider it polish

on your

stomping boots.

Then I look down,

you   wear   no   shoes.