I never trapped a keeper
Nor did I keep a trap But my Trapper Keeper was royal blue And Velcro held it shut But even with my best intentions I never really used it Except on the first day of school When my desk was clean The folders were labeled With subjects in order And a notebook locked in With some pens and pencils zipped up I’d bring it home from school At the end of the year And vow to use it again But I always just got another one.
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Dad took down the trees
That the disease was affecting Eleven in total From around our house It was a long chainsaw summer Full of sawdust Exhaust Burn piles And stumps I remember counting the rings And doing the math Counting back the years And not comprehending That these trees grew Through the decades Events Wars And generations While we missed the trunks The branches and leaves And the shade that cooled us We gained open air And views of the sun Moon Stars And blue sky Hand-me-downs were not my favorite
They were not about fashion They were about function They came through my brothers Before them all my cousins And they didn’t end with me I like to think that Some kid Somewhere Is still wearing One of those zippered shirts Or patched-kneed Rustler jeans Four years old
My tonsils said “out!” So to the hospital I went with my mom I don’t remember anyone else Except my roomie And a male nurse that I thought was John Boy They told me I’d be able To eat all the popsicles I wanted When the surgery was over So I looked forward to that perk When I groggily came to They came by with the cart And asked what flavor I wanted “Cherry!” of course was my whispered reply But they didn’t have cherry Or grape... or orange All they had left was lime From that day forward I despised lime. If he was home for his birthday
He’d come home from the store After being on his feet all day Counting those pills And typing up labels Confirming ‘scripts Filing insurance forms Staring at bills he owed And hoping people stepped up And took care of their charges. He’d come home and fill a glass With an elixir of golden hue Just one short glass - on the rocks Watered down whiskey Which has never appealed to me. He’d sit in his chair And grab his pipe Deftly filling with his thumb Gently packing it And lighting it while drawing it in The news would be on While the smoke rolled out The ice would clink Randomly as he sipped his drink From time To time Followed by MASH or Cheers And then he’d let out a chuckle At Hawkeye’s or Woody’s antics That floated across the room They were simple birthdays We’d get him a gift Like soap on a rope And a card, All three of us signed “To the best dad ever, We love you! Chris Matthew JT” Building a fort
Out of cushions and blankets Was an art All on its own My dad taught us The basics of soft engineering And we took It as far as we could We used each and every Couch and chair cushion, Pillow and blanket And linked them all over the room Til the network of darkness Was just what we wanted And our world Was separated from theirs’ Our flashlights Lit the way for us Until the blankets came down Were folded quickly away And cushions returned, Pillows all put in the corner And I began planning the next layout in my head. At night I would lay
In my bed by the window Open to the light of the moon That danced off the lake Ever so gently with ripples From it’s friend the east wind The cabin was dark And I could see all the sparkles Under the big patchy white sphere That hovered ever higher Over the cool cool water And I’d philosophize about life to myself This was “my place” This nook in the cabin A bunk bed with the best view around With just a screen between Myself and Eagle Lake Sleep and sweet dreams were quick to arrive. Scars of stitches
Map the years And my moments of bad Decisions A fall here An accident there Times when the hurry just Wasn’t worth it Two or three stitches Never more than five The cuts were always small But I hated blood And needles more So they were never Fun. Petrachor is the smell of rain
After a long extended dry spell It's the smell of relief and joy Minerals precipitating and filling The ground with life But after a wet wet spring The smell of rain is probably The last thing wanted Next to, of course, The smell of snow. |