Ars Poetica/Ubi Sunt
a long-time empty house at an odd bend in the now seasonal road
cow pond glinting back May clouds and silver light sky
ponderous barn still somehow there
covered in creeper vine red boards gone bone gray
to match the poor house all its windows punched out
mailbox askew driveway full of junked pickups
one long dead Ford tractor still in the doorless shed
cow pond glinting back May clouds and silver light sky
ponderous barn still somehow there
covered in creeper vine red boards gone bone gray
to match the poor house all its windows punched out
mailbox askew driveway full of junked pickups
one long dead Ford tractor still in the doorless shed
at your feet a line of cloven crescents
trail through drying mud and just like that
you recall the kitchen there full of hunters
MacGregor plaid jackets suspenders and boots
smell of snow-wet wool and blood sweat and cigarettes coffee
that frigid morning (how many years now?) just out walking
that frigid morning (how many years now?) just out walking
to take in all the land ice crusted streams and mountains
frozen cow pond trying to shimmer in weak winter sun
you'd come knocking to inquire about the brown van
abandoned sunk to its axels in red mud a half mile down
near the creek before the little cabin
blocking the whole narrow road
blocking the whole narrow road
they shrug it isn't theirs
offer whiskey-spiked coffee
offer whiskey-spiked coffee
ask who your people are
(you're Mary's granddaughter)
with little prompting
they tell about the kills that brought
three gutted bucks to hang antlers down
from the maple's branches by the porch
three gutted bucks to hang antlers down
from the maple's branches by the porch
counting the points one has twelve
and spins gently from his roped hind ankles
in the winter wind
after coffee a smoke with the guys
you walk home writing
the poem in your head
and nowhere else until now
