Reputation
Fist-size
Harley-
Davidson
belt buckle he slouched
In
steady rain shoveling
Snow
around his truck
Parked
by a driveway I shovel
As
caretaker. He told me his
Life story how things hadn’t
Worked
out right when his family
Moved
to the woods, hiking
Deep
snow to a trailer
Across
the river after a
Makeshift
footbridge washed
Away
— and by the way, long hair
In
his eyes — could he cross our
Land
down river where most of the
New
lumber to his bridge was salvaged —
He’d
heard it was best to ask me first.
Local Killers
They’re
polite, both of them
Just
killed a deer on our land.
One
hunter needs to use the phone,
The
other one doesn’t want to retrace
Their
hike through the woods
To
his car. Could I drive them back?
The
same place we buried our old dog
Last
spring these two hunters have
Dragged
an 8-point buck down the
Hill
slope and gut it right there.
Of
course they didn’t know anything
About
the dog and when I came upon
Them
they stood rubber boots
In
blood, guts matted on snow.
We
left no sign or blood when we buried
The
dog. Dropped a pine tree and buried
Her
under the boughs, head at the stump.
She
rotted. Now one of the young hunters
Is
washing his big knife off in the brook
Running
behind us. His balding head is
Ashen
with sweat, sweater blood smeared —
He
tags the deer with a rip into the
Rear
leg, shows me where they shot it
Four
times. They still don’t know where
They
are, so I point them to the road.
Goodbye
It’s
been three years
Since
we spoke with one
Another,
and I sat in my
Old
car with the engine running,
Window
rolled open, and Everett
Squatted
by the roadside in the
Dirty
wet shadow of his home-made
Barn,
munching on a cigarette stub
In
a late afternoon rain.
He
is leaving the valley. There is
A
For Sale sign hammered into his
Front
lawn above the retaining
Stone
wall I built for him long ago.
I
can remember how we cruised the
Back
road in his dusty pickup truck
Robbing
the walls that nobody seemed
To
own because no one was around.
All
that has changed.
Everyone
owns land in this
Valley
— now a dog and home are
Every
1000 feet — the same
Road
I once followed the
Dragged
trail of a porcupine
Today
I wave to six new neighbors.
Everett
still hasn’t lost his
Handsome
smile and he knows I
Think
what he is thinking but
We
don’t say anything except we do
Need
this rain as it soaks his green
Work
shirt, and nearby the familiar
Drizzle
from heaped manure drains
Down
to the brook. That water
Once
tasted like cold stone shade
And
I would haul it to my cabin every
Other
day — then Everett moved in and
With
a farmer comes manure and in that
Pissy
barn he gave me water from his tap.
No
other man on this road ever gave
Me
water from his tap or stood talking
In
the privacy of rain or paid me one
Fall
to cut his winter load of firewood
Because
his back was lame and there was
Just
no one else around to ask.
______________________
Bob Arnold
O N C E I N V E R M O N T
Gnomon
