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Sixty
At age sixty, my father began
to revisit the scenes of his life,
the graves of not only his mother and father,
his brothers, various aunts and great-uncles,
but also of those relatives he barely knew,
or had learned of only after he was middle-aged,
distant cousins who had married into the family,
and for whatever reason, seemed to be forgotten,
perhaps even by those of more direct descent.
He stood over their stones and remembered
what little he could recall, where they lived,
what they did for a living, the facts of their deaths.
Suddenly these people rose to a prominence
they never achieved in life, after he turned sixty.
From areas in Kansas City, where his family moved
after a disastrous stint in Idaho, he turned to Arkansas,
the state of his birth, where many relatives still survived.
He bought land there, a few acres with a small cabin,
and methodically, like a doctor with a difficult case,
a nagging sensation difficult to isolate or confirm,
he examined all the sites, overgrown cemeteries,
proud homes of those surviving, also nursing facilities,
eyes that had dimmed forever, and those brought back
sometimes with a single word, who remembered his parents,
maybe even his grandparents, and great-grandparents.
A collection of names he memorized and often classified.
Something about these people sprang suddenly to life
when he turned sixty, that made him feel for the first time
in a long while, he was one link in a very long chain.
The Buffalo River rolled on as he walked along bluffs
one day, gathering stones and pitching them in.
That afternoon, he walked through scrub and thistle
back to the meadow where his birthplace was located.
His footsteps echoed off the distant bluff
as he approached the foundation, where yellowed grass
clawed through cracked stones, struggling for new life.
He stood for over an hour, then began his journey back,
just like the neighbor sixty years ago who walked five miles
when he heard the news, a new baby born in the night,
who knocked quietly at the door, not wanting to disturb
the new mother, already a mother of seven.
Blessing the birth with some simple gift, he shook
the father's hand and began the long trek home,
his step noticeably lighter, pleased always to see new life.
The meadow was that day a brighter place,
the sight of the infant a light that guided him home.
May the boy be blessed with long life
and descendants to carry on his name!
Things the Flood Taught the Kansas Hermit
The world will end neither by fire nor ice
but by sliding away in a swirl of tangled limbs.
How Noah felt from the upper window of the ark
as the rocky crags of the tallest mountains disappeared.
When all memory of his beloved prairie can vanish
beneath rising foam crests, what chance does his stand?
One day all those possessions people covet
will spin away and sink beneath the waves.
To isolate oneself away from towns and farms is one thing
but to stranded on a wooded hill without choice is another.
That drifting cottonwood trunk would make a sturdy skiff,
if one were of a mind to see life beyond these hills.
The Birth of a Temporary Town
Only ten days old, and already structures are going up!
At first a rutted path through town, fronting the track.
Choked with refuse--broken chairs, fliers rolling end over end.
Wagons line up on either side; tents bloom like flowers.
Already five mutts have joined together into a pack,
teasing calves tied to stakes, taking down one that strayed.
One girl was bitten from reaching out to pet her former friend.
A blacksmith has set up shop in four crude walls with canvas roof.
From the back of her wagon, an old woman dispenses herbs
to cure gout, drive away bedbugs, and repel rattlesnakes.
Two nights ago, two sixteen year old slatterns defied their fathers
by staying gone all night, returned with bruises and fistfuls of cash.
The first murder has been anticipated for days, as the resident tough
who cheated at cards was beaten by the leader of the prayer service.
"We will not allow drunkenness and dishonesty in our community,"
he repeats, though the prayer service now meets in another's tent.
Already two women in gingham skirts warn their children against
wandering too far down Front Street, down among "those people."
Among endless optimism, one cynic mutters beneath his breath,
"At rainbow's end, maybe there's just another storm."
How Food Should Be Served
My father arrives
To find her sitting
At an empty table.
In the rusted birdcage
The parakeet whips furiously
As if to make up for her lack of movement.
Through cataracts, she sees the flash of green
And hears the ringing of his voice
Pecking on her inner drum.
Her hands lie on the table
Like sparrows on a still branch
Just before the first storm wind whips it back.
The meals those hands have made!
That table spread with the same cloth
Spilling its wares onto the bureaus,
Onto the window ledges, the piano bench.
The phone crowded by potatoes and gravy.
Fried chicken and creamed corn on a dresser.
Always she whirred about the guests,
Ignoring those who begged her to sit.
Always that drive to provide for others.
After we were stuffed and headed for the porch,
She would pick from a sparse plate, complaining
That nothing tasted right, too dry, not enough salt.
Maybe she is remembering just such a meal
When my father knocks at the front door
To take her for an all-you-can-eat buffet.
She wanders among the green beans and roast,
The creamy bread pudding and spinach salad,
Among the bread and fifteen varieties of pies.
She fills her plate now and eats it all slowly,
Perhaps savoring the skill of fellow artists,
Or maybe thinking that this is not the way
Such a banquet should be served,
By such an unseen and efficient hand,
Who doesn't hover to gauge the reaction,
Or linger for the end of an ancient joke
Before ducking in the kitchen for gravy,
Watching loved ones from the kitchen
So as to memorize their faces
And recall their voices when the silence is
Punctuated only by a bird's restless chirps.
Now she eats fully and never complains.
The food is good here, she says, even though
With every bite, she grows only more frail.
My Uncle's Uniforms
The two early pictures on my aunt's wall,
Of my uncle in his army uniform
And him in his Union Pacific regalia,
Suggest to me his defining characteristic,
Exemplified how he dealt with his disease
That for the duration of my memories
Confined him to that black leather chair,
Couched in a body that refused to cooperate,
That ill-fitting, poorly tailored costume
He finally removed for good in 1982.
Just like he did at the start of World War II,
When his image was captured in starched glory,
He looked smart, efficient,
In pressed railroad uniform
And bright blue cap
But somehow nonchalant,
with his crooked smile,
cap tipped to the side,
For almost thirty years
Of stepping from platforms
Onto arriving trains,
With armloads of paper towels,
Toilet paper, and napkins,
The uniform never defined him,
Something always eluded him,
Never the anonymous company man.
Even after a lifetime of work,
Of bowing to grumbling passengers,
Quickly responding to his name
Shouted above the announcements,
Walking back through Union Station
After another exhausting, anonymous day,
Feet aching in those ill-fitting black shoes,
He was always somehow removed from it all,
Disappearing through those wide front doors,
Maybe whistling as he rode the bus home,
That certain jaunt in his step as he entered home,
Divesting himself of the uniform onto the bed
Without somehow losing even a part of himself,
That now dusty and sweat-stained skin separate,
Smaller than he remembered it, even laughable.
Thomas D. Reynolds teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, The MacGuffin, Midwest Poetry Review, and The Pedestal Magazine. (June 2006) (June 2007)
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