April 26, 2020

1967; Somewhere in the First Half of the Year

sometime in the middle of nineteen-sixty-seven

Mom and Dad bought the house Beth and I

would pull them form forty-three years later

it was a big old post-and-beam farm house

on land long sectioned off to new neighbours

though one barn, unknowingly falling down

and one out-building, destined for accidental flame

remained to make the place seem less lonely

sitting there all on its own at the first corner

east of highway thirty-seven along the third

after almost a mile of mostly empty road

my brother and I thought the barn was fun

the drive-shed behind it, which had fallen down

even more so, despite Dad’s threats of a belt

if he ever learned we’d risked our lives near it

(we did, once, sliding down its metal roof

but as Dad promised, we did it only once)

so we were relegated to the barn, and shed

the one where we lived imaginary adventures

and the other where we explored two floors

filled with treasure only young boys could love

left behind by those far less enlightened folk

who’d lived in and used the place before us

one of the treasures remains a treasure

I claimed it for my own, still hold it near

left behind by a forgetful high-school grad

who loved it little enough that it could be left

for me to find in the dust behind some old junk

“New Horizons”, edited by Bert Case Diltz,

an anthology of what I’d never known was

up until that day I’d never read a poem

(except the Psalms of David from my Bible

to which my debt continues to appreciate)

from that day I don’t know that I’ve stopped