169 HIGHWAY KANSAS CITY TO TULSA

Two horsemen amble through
a dew-filled pasture
on quarter horses.

A thousand hand mirrors
dance on a farm pond
in morning sun.

A symphony of birds swoop in tandem
to an unseen choreographer
through the fall breeze.

Six rotund hay bales
loaded on a narrow trailer 
appear to be a hairy behemoth
on its way to feed hungry cattle.

Fleecy clouds play hide and seek
with the afternoon sunshine
until Nowatta.

I rush past rusty oil wells
sucking black syrup from the earth.

Crawl past Ooglala-Talala high school
at twenty-five miles an hour.

Three jet contrails streak
the pale blue sky.

Four-lane highway ribbons
over long rolling hills
toward horizon.

Around a curve,
over a rise,
Tulsa
juts from the landscape.

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CUTIES IN KEY OVERALLS

Tractor swap-meet filled
with hopeful buyers
in Key overalls.

One saunters down an aisle
curly shoulder-length flaming hair
held back by blue bandana;
balloon belly fills his bib.

In his shadow
a shorter companion tags along;
cuffs rolled,
long beard down his chest.

Another, an over-stuffed walrus
side buttons agape,
girth too large for weak knees
rides a battery-powered scooter.

They wind through endless aisles
of old tractor parts, tires, and fenders
displayed on flat-bed trailers.

Tall shopper
overalls too generous for his thin frame
heads for his truck
big grin under his ball cap bill,
carries a bucket of bolts
and a rusty headlight.

PATTERNS

Clop.
Her steps sound hollow on the plywood
stretched over bare rafters
beyond the fourth bedroom door.
She squints to adjust eyes to semi-darkness,
reaches for the bulb.
Light illumines the rocking chair
full of old music books.
She removes the stack and sits. The rocker creaks.
She opens the ancient chest,
draws out a child’s cash-register, pushes a key.
The drawer flies open.
She fingers plastic coins, drops them,
one at a time, back into the drawer.
Near the cash register is a pile of letters,
weekly epistles from Great-grandmother to her children.
She unties the stack; the faded purple ribbon
slides to the floor.
She slips the first one out of a yellowed envelope.
Onion paper crackles.
She reads of daily tasks, trolley cars,
family concerns, health problems.
Ties them with a fresh bow;
returns them to their place of rest.
She closes the lid.
Beside the rocking chair are boxes of patterns–
sizes 6 months to 7 years in one, 8 to 14 in another.
Will anyone ever use them again?

Originally Published in: Mid-America Poetry Review
 

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A VISIT WITH AUNT KATHERINE

She draws the window blinds
behind sheer curtains;
shuts out the bright sunlight.
Her feet shuffle behind me
across the threadbare tapestry rug.
In the darkened room I can barely see
tatted doilies, worked around fine linen
that adorn the faded arms and head-rest  
of the brocade wing-back chair.
A musty smell permeates the room.
Matching lamps, shades still dressed
in cellophane,
stand guard on walnut tables at each end
of the sagging divan.
With shaking hands, she sets a silver service
on the small Windsor table
next to white Haviland tea cups and saucers,
pours.
Passes me a tinkling cup,
“I’m so glad you have come
to brighten my day.”

Originally Published in: The Best Times
 

 -----------------------------------------
 
JUNE EVENING

Cows graze 
in gathering dusk
over rolling Kansas fields;
Whippoorwills call the darkness.
Eager children dash about
in search of lightning bugs;
make deposits in glass jars
fully aware of true treasure.