Monday, June 3, 2013

Atlas, pass the ketchup



Picnic Table

The locust posts
he found peeled clean
lopped in six foot logs
on the rundown farm
behind blowsy fence rows
where his mother was born
trespass a tangy note
to cut the sweet cloy of larceny
sweeter still to feature
Papa Wear railing red
in the sweet by and by
elastic drawl reduced to ash
Scots Irish burr
coaxed back to life
tender green oaths
up in shoots through the burn.

Cedar plank branded
with bore holes
four inch lag bolts
to bite and hold
spar varnish lavished
on knot and grain
ship in a bottle
for a man
with oars for hands
heart a deep draft keel.

Life ain’t no picnic
so my father
built a table
to last an eternity.

Once
I watched him
tip the table top
onto his back
grip the edges
below the center of gravity
rise in a stoop
like a mythical beast
spiked with locust posts
and waltz the table
down the block
to a neighbors backyard
where picnickers covered
his metaphor
with a red checked table cloth
and pointed him toward the cooler. 















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