Saturday, April 19, 2014

Gertrude





A grandma tall among cousins walking down the railroad tracks
eyes searching for the oldest date nail amongst the ties,
with arms stretched out we walk the rails
like high-wire artists; our mouths tight in concentration
swaying back and forth we seem destined
for the roadbed with each uncertain step.

In an hour or so our slow train pulls into the army navy store,
thick with the smell of dank canvas and old lubricant.
She does finally reel us in and it's time to settle up.

Gert discreetly turns to retrieve her tobacco-sack,
her "grannie-money," safe from thieves in her brassiere,
for she is the quartermaster for our summer war machine.

With one crossed eye, she never drove a car
or wore pants and kept her hair braided in a high, tight bun.
She walked those cinders past old Judge Parker's gallows
in hooked shoes and glasses that were already old when I was born.

She never napped as I recall and cooked like it was a career.
Her laugh was quick and had the best rope swing in her walnut tree.
Time stood still in her house and nothing ever changed till one day
she just wore out from livin' every day till long after dark. Gone.

{Move  up?}
The small town girl from her dreams 
quilted and built caskets during the war,
and her older sister dipped snuff and  spit
in old coffee cans throughout the house.

{Move ?}
Whenever we stayed with her,
the faeries dressed up like fireflies
and protected us at night while we slept.
She said so.

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