REPUTATION ~

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