true

"Cows are out.
Fence is down."

He's gone.
She'd go too

but the pot is on
and 20 jars are waiting.

The beans have cooled,
the wax is hot,

an hour more
and that's done, too.

19 lids
screwed on tight.

One is stuck.
It won't turn full.

Tip, tap,
tip, tap.

Blam.
Blam.

Himmer, hammer,
himmer, hammer.

Ummmmmghn.

Slid to a corner.
19 to cellar.

Peas on to boil,
bread in the oven.

Foil on the bird,
juices to cover.

Ice in the glasses,
hot tea on top,

All of her business
settles to supper.

He seems to know
and soon washes up

and together they savor
the fruit of their labor.

After long pause
and the clatter of cleaning,

they both shuffle out
to his and her seating.

With sinking sighs
and sounds of slow pages,

they render
unto King James.

One set of footsteps
creaks up the stairs

Her bed-springs
speak her good-night

And he of the hands
that turn thin pages

that coax the cows
that hammer the fence

enters the empty room
for a last drink of water.

And he sees No. 20
and her small despair

and his thick slow hands
free gritted grooves

and twist them
back into true.

***

~ Marceline Lasater ~

©1998 M. Lasater/RedBird Café.
    Unauthorized reproduction prohibited by all applicable laws.
All rights reserved.