Post by LeoVictorBriones (poetremains) on Apr 10, 2008 15:16:22 GMT -5
for Tina
After all, it was Bobby who took over
the meat packing business after Daddy passed.
It was Bobby who took over
for Daddy and became the silver stone for little sis.
It was Bobby who shared
your red hair, your cloudless eyes, and chubby corners.
When we spoke
there was poetry on the edge of our mouths.
But we couldn’t taste it,
just wiped it off and rubbed it against our fingertips.
You see, we didn’t know what to say,
so we just tried to make each other laugh.
Cremated in a golf shirt and nine iron,
How could that not be funny.
Still, I knew hidden
behind your polite Southern window dressing,
you wanted to curse his wife and kids.
The way they buried him
in that lonely room nearly
two months before they fed him,
against his will, to the hungry fire.
Now, as you we chat across the phone
two-thousand miles away, I’m carrying a wheelbarrow
of river rocks up a tilted hill without a word to say,
just blurt out, “Tell me your best memory of him.”
Finally you say,
“When Bobby was in college he took his girlfriend,
who later became his wife to the state fair.
Bobby won this beautiful porcelain doll at some shootout gallery.
Well, that’s way his wife tells it.
She’s waiting all night
for Bobby to give her that doll—but not a word.
So as they’re driving home, she looks over at Bobby,
who had this fat cat grin on his face, and she says,
“That’s a really great doll isn’t it, walks on its own and everything?”
Bobby’s smile creeps up toward his cheekbones
and he answers smooth as a Southern sunset,
“Sure is, can’t wait to see the look on my little sis’ face
when I give it to her.”
Then you half crying tell me,
“If it isn’t bad enough they cremated him against his will
they’re planning on splitting the ashes, burying one urn
at the grave site, somehow fitting the other one
into his granddaughters wedding this summer.
We laugh.
How could that not be funny.
After all, it was Bobby who took over
the meat packing business after Daddy passed.
It was Bobby who took over
for Daddy and became the silver stone for little sis.
It was Bobby who shared
your red hair, your cloudless eyes, and chubby corners.
When we spoke
there was poetry on the edge of our mouths.
But we couldn’t taste it,
just wiped it off and rubbed it against our fingertips.
You see, we didn’t know what to say,
so we just tried to make each other laugh.
Cremated in a golf shirt and nine iron,
How could that not be funny.
Still, I knew hidden
behind your polite Southern window dressing,
you wanted to curse his wife and kids.
The way they buried him
in that lonely room nearly
two months before they fed him,
against his will, to the hungry fire.
Now, as you we chat across the phone
two-thousand miles away, I’m carrying a wheelbarrow
of river rocks up a tilted hill without a word to say,
just blurt out, “Tell me your best memory of him.”
Finally you say,
“When Bobby was in college he took his girlfriend,
who later became his wife to the state fair.
Bobby won this beautiful porcelain doll at some shootout gallery.
Well, that’s way his wife tells it.
She’s waiting all night
for Bobby to give her that doll—but not a word.
So as they’re driving home, she looks over at Bobby,
who had this fat cat grin on his face, and she says,
“That’s a really great doll isn’t it, walks on its own and everything?”
Bobby’s smile creeps up toward his cheekbones
and he answers smooth as a Southern sunset,
“Sure is, can’t wait to see the look on my little sis’ face
when I give it to her.”
Then you half crying tell me,
“If it isn’t bad enough they cremated him against his will
they’re planning on splitting the ashes, burying one urn
at the grave site, somehow fitting the other one
into his granddaughters wedding this summer.
We laugh.
How could that not be funny.
