Poems

The field in September had two colorsyellow where summer held on,brown where it had quit. That seemed true to mein more ways than one. School had started.The mornings had a sharper feel.Crickets kept on goingas if nothing had changed,which was almost insulting. Everybody talked of football,tests, girls, weather, plans,all the ordinary machineryused to drag a […]

Take River Road past the mill,past the ditch and broken rail,past the field gone brown and flat,past the houses worn and pale,and there’s a bend where evening comesearlier than the rest of town,as if the day gets tired thereand sets its heavy bucket down. I used to ride that road with friends,all noise and jokes

Saturday night in the parking lot behind the groceryfelt bigger than it really was.A few cars.A boom box with weak batteries.Cigarette tips flashing in the dark.Laughter bouncing off cinder block.The whole cheap kingdom made of tail lights, denim, hair spray, and nerve. We leaned on hoods like we owned the worldor had at least taken

I kneltwhen everyone else knelt.I bowed my headwhen everyone else bowed. I knew the words by sound,by order,by years of hearing themfall over a roomtill the room itself felt shaped by them. Yet there were nightsI did not knowwhether I was speaking upwardor inwardor nowhere. That scared me some.It made me feel olderthan I wanted.

Rain on Main Street after darkmade the whole town look better than it was. That sounds cruel.It is not.It is just true. The cracked sidewalks went black and shining.The drugstore sign bled red into the puddles.The barber pole looked almost beautiful.The courthouse windows turned soft.Even the boarded place by the alleygot one good minutewhere the

Patches did not jump as highThat year.He still came when food hit the dish,still rubbed against the porch rail,still looked offended by almost everything,but slower. I saw it first when he missed the chair.Not by much.Just enoughto make me feel something low and meanturn over in me. Cats are supposed to stay cats.That is one

There is something filthy and sadabout waiting near a pay phoneand pretending you are not waiting. The phone booth by the drugstorehad initials carved in the metal,gum wrappers down by the base,a cracked little shelf for your change,and a smell like hot wire, dirt, and rain dried on concrete. I stood near it half the

I ought to be doing something useful.That is what study hall is for.Pages, facts, dates, numbers,all the good, proper thingsthat are meant to stack upinto a future. Instead I am watching dust movethrough the stripe of lightby the far windowand thinking how strange it isthat a person can feel busy in the headand still be

The tree behind our house in fallLooked thin enough to break.By June it was a wall of leaves.By now it seemed half fake. The branches showed their awkward bones.The wind could pass right through.It looked like something left behindWhen summer up and flew. I used to think bare trees were deadOr close enough to be.Now

In winter Patches scratched the doorAs if we’d left him out by war.Not once.Not twice.But all night longWith steady claw and cat complaint,a rough small song. Then in he’d come,all cold and grand,and sniff the room like he had plannedto stay outside forever,but changed his mindfor our sake. He’d walk around as if he ownedthe