the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 445, Dec. 13, 2003
The Saturday Edition
“At night concentrate on
riffles. Let the current carry the bait downstream. Walk quietly along the
bank. Keep cool.”
—From the directions on the label of Bee’-Jay
Bait Co., Channel Catfish Bait
The poor guy’s a mess. From outward appearances, he
looks all right. Cardigan, tasteful slacks, substantial shoes. Has some
professional job. Most of the time, he’ll shake your hand and say “Howdy.”
But you should see the way he screams at his kid and
gets his blood pressure going at his kid’s basketball game, like it was the
Olympics or somethin’.
Standin’ around, he looks like everyone else. But the
look in his eyes gives him away. I’m not the greatest dressed guy. I wear funny
clothes. Half the time my kid’s embarrassed to go anywhere with me. I forget to
do things like comb my hair, brush the dog hair off my coat, cinch up my tie.
It’s not somethin’ I ever think about. Most times,
anyway. Particularly if there’s nothin’ at stake—droppin’ the kid off at
school, goin’ ta the store, pickin’ up a sandwich.
When I see this guy though—his kid and mine go ta the
same school—I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t like my kind. Unkempt.
Liberal. Immoral. He never sees me in church. He brings it up from time to time,
like, “Hey, in mass on Sunday did you hear Father So and So talk about the
connection between Paul on the Road to Damascus and the way of modern man to
salvation?”
No, I think to myself, I’s at home reading the
Bhagavad-Gita.
Anyway, we show up this morning for this big test our
kids are supposed to take. Of course, my kid and I don’t have pencils or a
calculator. I’m thinking we’re screwed. My kid, she’s handlin’ it like it
happens all the time and there’s nothin’ ta worry about. This guy says hello
and starts askin’ me where our pencils are.
“I didn’t know we were supposed ta bring our own
pencils,” I say.
“Oh.” He looks at his kid and has her put her pencils
in her coat pocket.
I can’t help myself. “Say, you gotta a’ extra my kid
could use?”
“Uh, no.”
“I do,” another girl says. “And I brought a’ extra
calc’lator, too.” She hands the device to my kid. “You’d hate to get stuck
doin’ all that math by hand.”
The guy looks disappointed, hurt almost. He turns
away and won’t talk to me. I can’t help but thinka the way he yells at his kid
at the basketball game.
Drivin’ home in the snow, I take it kinda easy. I was
mad at first, but then I started ta think about it. Something happened ta that
guy. Something bad. Probably nothing I can fix. But I’m gonna hafta do
something nice for him. That’s all there is to it.
Today’s poem:
by Laura Anello
God, did You forget?
I’m right here.
Not far from where
I’ve always been.
God, are You there?
Up there, out there
Not far from where
You’ve always been?
God, are you there in
The beads,
The pearls and tears,
In the twinkles and sprinkles
Above in the midnight I see?
God, did you forget?
I’m right here
In the sunlight and moonlight,
Down here
In the twilight –
Not far from where
I’ve always been.
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