Ars Poetica/Ubi Sunt
a long-time empty house at an odd bend in the now seasonal road
cow pond full of May clouds and silver light sky
the 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 full of May clouds and silver light sky
the 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 deer tracks and just like that
you recall the kitchen there once full of hunters
MacGregor plaid jackets suspenders and boots
smell of snow-wet wool and blood sweat and cigarettes coffee
that frigid morning (how long ago?) just out walking
that frigid morning (how long ago?) 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 came knocking to inquire about the brown van
sunk to its axels in red mud a half mile down
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 upside down
from the maple's branches by the porch
three gutted bucks to hang upside down
from the maple's branches by the porch
counting the points one has twelve
and spins gently from his roped hind legs
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
