The Hunter Sees the World
for John Billy
Sitting on the porch deck at his cabin,
he scans the trees, the field below.
With him I have walked streets
in Detroit, Denver, Atlanta;
sixty-five, right hand in pocket
gripping a knife, his eyes intense.
Sixty-six, chasing me corner to
tennis court corner, gray-haired,
rough-faced as Bukowski, relentless.
Sixty-seven, retired from the classroom
he managed like a ship, barking, bantering,
perfect grammar, careful annunciation.
Early fall evening on the deck, rifle across
his lap, a sweaty glass of bourbon in hand,
fourth inning of the ballgame on the radio
when the groundhog makes his move.
Down
Autographed years like pages flip;
cold and waiting in winter rain,
waiting for your child in the same
high school parking lot where
your father once waited.
Christmas creeps closer as you
consider the haunted paths that
fetched you, yearbook to yearbook
back to this green bluff, this beaten
gymnasium, named for your old coach,
back on this Ferris wheel orbit,
waiting for your curly-headed youngest,
skinny, shy grin, lugging a sax
from the holiday concert.
As the radio plays Bruce or Skynyrd,
you buckle up: riders in this time machine.
|