I doubt I’d ever have taken this road
had I known how fallen it really was
to disrepair: driving comically,
skirting ruts and high boulders, grimacing
at every bang on the oil pan.
I tell you it’s the old road to Wendell —
that they don’t make them like this anymore.
We’re bound by curious obligations,
and so stop by an old family plot
walled in by piles of jumbled fieldstone,
cornered to the edge of what once was field.
The picket gateway still stands intact,
somebody propped up leaning on a stick,
an anonymous gesture of reverence.
Only nature disrespects–toppling stone,
bursting with suckers and wild raggedness.
A gravestone, schist of worn slate, leans weathered:

   Joshua Sawyer Died Here 1860

Another stone, cracked, has fallen over.
I reset the stone, and scrape the caked earth
as if studying some split tortoise shell,
and have keyed in to a distant birth —
His wife Ruth died young; so I picture him
stern with his only daughter, only child —
speaking for a faith which could defy her.
There’d be no passing onto when she died —
twenty-two, more words beside her mother.
Still these stones and fields you kept in order,
long days spent forcing sharp turns on nature,
accepting the loose stone and thin topsoil.
A Wendell neighbor must have buried you
whispering a eulogy which is as lost
as your daughter, your wife, and this farm:

—Joshua Sawyer

I’ve never been down this road before
I would like to speak with you of faith.

Somewhere north of Bangor
on the run from Tennessee.
Lost in back scrub paper land
in section TR-3.
It’s hit him he’s an outlaw
a Georgia cracker’s son,
who killed a man in Nashville
with his daddies favorite gun.
It’s hit him with the loneliness
of wondering where you are
on a long ago railway
stretched between two stars.

Two weeks shy of nineteen
in 1992,
she got tickets with her girlfriends
for that new band coming through.
She got tickets for the show,
she said, “go on and have a night on town.
I’ll meet you in the morning at
Frannie’s Coffee Ground;”
but she met a backstage roady
from that traveling country band,
and now it’s hard to slow the pain that grows
inside a hurtin’ man.
I took one of Joe’s old Rugers
and the law into my hand.

I borrowed Lance’s Mustang
and a Mobil credit card.
I drove every pot-holed backroad
they’ve got in Arkansas.
By now there was an all points
on a Georgia crackers son
who left on Sunday morning
with his daddies favorite gun.
I heard the church bells ringing, pleading,
pulling on my soul.
I almost turned back—I couldn’t bear to go.
Twenty years of praying
and doing what I was told.

They played three shows in Nashville
and Johnson City for a night.
Two air-brushed old greyhounds
under marquee neon lights.
I followed them to every show
until I found the man
with a tattoo of Geronimo
on the back of his right hand.
I asked him about a gal he met
at Saturday night’s show;
she says that you get kind of rough
and don’t understand no.
I thought that I’d find out myself
just if that be so.

I heard you like to think
you lead your life out on the edge.
You say the way we live our lives
we may as well be dead.
But now that you believe
that you’re the God of your own land
you’ve got to walk a higher road
than any other man.
You’ve got to toe a higher line
and somehow make it real;
you’ve got to learn in disregard
to think hard as you feel.
He pulled his knife,
I took his life—
you’ve got to pay for what you steal.

Now I’m somewhere north of Bangor
on the run from Tennessee.
Lost in back-scrub paper land
in section TR-3.
No more an outlaw
than a Georgia crackers son
you will not play the renegade
trapped or on the run;
and you love the strange wild loneliness
of knowing who you are—
you love the way the patterns lay
stretched between the stars;
and you know that when they find you
they won’t know who you are.

I know your name. It’s written there.
I wonder if you care.
A six-pack of Narragansett beer,
Some Camels and the brownie over there.
Every day I stop by like I
Got some place I’ve got to go;
I’m buying things I don’t really need:
I don’t read the Boston Globe.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye.
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

You’re new around here, but in a quiet way.
How long you gonna stay?
Your baby sleeps by the porno rack
And you car’s got Michigan plates.
Winter here’s a lonely time:
snow piles, and generally a pain.
I blew the tranny on my pickup truck,
So I’m driving that rusted-out Fairlane.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye.
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

Pretty soon, she knew my name;
She’d say, “Hey, John-O, how ya been?”
I’d bring her toys that I’d whittled up
To hang over our little baby friend.
I felt myself all changed up somehow,
And I worked like I’d never worked before,
Dropping trees and bucking logs,
All the while thinking of that store.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

But it all ends up kinda’  like you think it might. I got all spiffed up and headed on over to the store. I get there a little later than I usually do. I’d been home whittling up this Canada goose— little thing with wings that flap, so we could hang it over the baby’s crib and she should slap at it—and it would look like it was flying.

Anyways, I get there and Frank is behind the counter reading one of them magazines, all of a sudden I felt myself getting real small, and kinda drifting away. I could hardly even hear him saying, “Yeah, that’s too bad about Carol. She was a real good girl. But I told her not to worry none, that there’s plenty of folks around looking for work, but it would be hard to find one just like herself. Fact is, John-O, she was waiting around here for you to show up; but seeing as how you were so late in coming, and that fellow she was with kinda looked like he wanted to get going, she just wrote down this here note for you. Asked if I’d give it to you here….”

“What’s she say, John-O?”

“Not much, Frank, It just says, …
Dear John-O,
Thanks a lot for everything you did for me this winter. It really meant a lot to me, and I really do wish we could have gotten to known each other better. But life just takes quiet, crazy turns sometimes, and you never know.”

No address. Michigan somewhere, I guess.

So I stuck my head in a Field & Stream magazine so Frank wouldn’t see me. But, like all the folks around here, he knew. It just all seemed kinda weird: Frank, over there, behind the counter saying “Hey, John-O, check out this one over here….”

Damn, damn it I
I had the corner of her eye.
But I…
I didn’t try.

Jesus Christ, Jimmy,
man you say that you’re well;
I say we drive into Boston
and stir up some hell;
put a cap on the weekend,
a stitch in the night,
watch the Pats play on Sunday
and the welterweight fight.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

Wally there thanks
for the call yesterday;
Yeah, I do need the work
but those people can’t pay;
they’re all pie in the sky
with their heads in the clouds:
the high-talking yahoos
that fill up this town.

Fill up this glass
one more time there old man;
sneak one for yourself
I know that you can.
Nick man come here;
come on tell me it’s true—
you won the college bowl pool
and the trifecta too.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

Rogue what you say,
come on tell us the one
about the dog and the bull
and the ministers son;
you told it to Willy,
who told it to me,
who told the whole team
down the alley last week

Well it’s hard to believe
you’ve been married since June.
It seems just yesterday
we’d go piss at the moon—
piss at the moon
and somehow we’d get by
with a pocket of cash
and a piece of the sky.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

It seems kind if strange
the quiet of the room;
everyone had to be
leaving so soon.
It seems kind of strange
they got families at home;
I’m the last of the boys;
I’ll have one more alone.

One more rye Howie;
straight up is fine;
I’m okay to drive home,
I’ll just take my time;
keep all the change.
You treated us well;
I’m just trying to figure
if this is heaven or hell.

Heaven or hell
or some pitstop for man,
where we all just pull over
to do what we can.
You do what you can,
and you hope that your right:
I’m the last of the boys
to tie one on tonight.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

This house makes funny noises
when the wind begins to blow.
I should have held on and never let you go.
The wind blew loose the drainpipe,
and you can hear the melting snow.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.

I should call you and tell you
how the frost heaves were this year.
You’d laugh and say, “Keeps the riff-raff out of here.”
You’d laugh and say, “In a funny way,
the whole place is kinda queer.”
You know, the State’s finally begun to thin the deer.
Yeah, the State’s finally begun to thin the deer.

And I know the way the tides,
they come and go and flow,
and I know the Essex River
and the clam flats down below.
But there’s something I don’t know
about living all alone
without you …

I sold the lot that looks out,
that looks out past the bay.
Just a pile of sand that’s worth too much to save.
We said we’d beat the greenheads
and build a dreamhouse there someday;
but I got three times the price I had to pay.
Yeah, I got three times the price I had to pay.

And I know the way the tides,And I know the way the tides,
they come and go and flow,
and I know the Essex River
and the clam flats down below.
But there’s something I don’t know
about living all alone
without you …

This house makes funny noises
when the wind begins to blow.
I should have held on and never let you go.
The wind blew loose the drainpipe.
You can hear the melting snow.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.
I’ll fix it in the morning;
I love you every morning;
I still miss you every morning when I go …

Jonathan McCarney of 37 Brookside Lane
lived for forty years with his wife Elaine;
retired now for twelve years,
he spent his waking hours
wondering if she’d ever be the same—

The same as before
as the pictures by the door.
The same as before,
Christ, I’m asking nothing more.
Then there came the days
when your mind begun to haze,
and you couldn’t remember
the little things no more.

It came on kind of slowly;
the doctors they all told you:
“Not to worry Dear,
it’s just a part of growing old.”
I’d laugh and say: “My sweet dear,
don’t cry and spill your warm tears—
we’re just a pair of old coots all alone.”

Then one day you went down
to the pharmacy in town;
two days later they found you
wandering around.
I put new locks on the door
and swore forever more
I’d never leave you
or let you come to harm.

So for five years I have cared for you—
cradled you and bathed you
and though my eyes are gone
my heart keeps racing on.
I know I cannot blame
but if just once you’d say my name;
My God, I dearly love my poor Elaine.

Then one cold October morning
they came taking you away—
“We’re sorry Mister McCarney,
you can’t care for her this way.”
They took her down the road—
just another aging load.
I swore that I would be with her each day.

Your home is now on Balls Hill,
the state pays your bed bill;
my pension helps to buy you a single room.
I sit down in the chair—
so far away I cannot dare—
Elaine we’ve got to be together soon.

Then Elaine I went home
and I prayed with all my might;
I don’t know if he’ll forgive me,
there’s just so much more wrong than right.
It fit well beneath my coat—
there’s no need for any note.
I’ll turn down the heat
I’ve no use for tonight.

Jonathan McCarney, and his dear wife Sue Elaine,
were waked today at their home on Brookside Lane.
Father Clark prayed on their grave,
Mrs. Blodgett cried and waved—
wondering if they’d ever be the same

Long ago you learned to know
the passing of the moons:
to pull the seeds before they’ve sprung
squirreled in bowls around the room.
I laugh to think how many times
I’ve tried to coax a dying flower
to give one more unfolding
to return some precious hour.
I love the hand that weaves the land
from sunshine knits to flowers;
who waters rows of thirsty souls
until they find their hidden power;
but the roots will hold and time will grow
and leave moss upon our stone;
and with every passing season
the mosaic of a home.

When you disappear the sun will bear
how the wind has shaped your beauty;
how in long walks through ancient woods
we stepped both sides of cruelty.
But the tree’s that lean all mean to fall
to give space to free the breathing;
and working through the tangled land
where hope is filled with meaning.

Yeah, I woke today and saw the way
you see the light of morning;
from the ground that pulls us down
there’s a new life freshly born in.
From the ground I turn each spring and fall
let bloom with beauty blooming
the blessed weeds and bowls of seeds:
I love you garden woman.

It’s something I‘ve hardly ever thought of:
this simple and rattling old diesel
has always gotten me there and then some;
and so at first I think this sputtering
is just some clog, and easily explained:
some bad fuel maybe, from the new Exxon,
or just shortsightedness on maintenance.
I’ve always driven in the red before,
and these have all been straight highway miles —
(Except for that short trip out to Zoar Gap
to catch the last of the late season trout,
surprised to find them still rising, sipping
my high hackled Humpy’s and Coachman’s
from dark pools in glazed and shimmered twilight.)

But that was nothing and of no account.
I drove Tuesday down to the town meeting,
and argued about the new town landfill
and proposed cutbacks in school athletics,
and then to Sears for a fifteen amp fuse.

At any rate there is no way around it.
I can only smile sheepishly, glad
that I’m really not in any hurry.
Still I feel like a fool out flagging trucks,
gesturing for help I can’t give myself,
hoping that my lines don’t need to be bled,
and I would have to spend that time thinking
of some way to explain this empty tank
to someone who probably knows better:

You know I always thought that maybe
something like this could happen to me —

but not now, not yet…