Dec 2015
it’s a tough business I’m in.
and I wouldn’t choose to do
anything else really.
sure, I’d write more or maybe
give a talk here or there if
they’d ask me, but then…
doing this thing in December
is the worst,
because you get to see just
how much poor these folks
are living in.
the quiet rumble of the big man
his voice like a rolling, roiling
thundercloud, not ready or willing
to unleash.
the snap and pop of the whole of him
as he stands to greet me is like the lightning
and his massive sigh as he returns to his recliner
is a gust of gray sorrow filling my sky.
“Look at this,” he says, “just look.”
I do; and I see the old scrub brush
Christmas tree he’s had his attendant
*****.
“There ain’t a ****** thing under there.” he says
to me and to the universe at large. “And, I’m already…”
I know what he means, as I sneak my litany in.
his answers are the same as always, he’s making
his way and in fair shape.
“I go to the pantry; sometimes to the church,” he continues.
“But, it’s hard to stand in line…last week was two hours for lunch.”
my mind runs to the wallet on my hip and the five crisp, new $100
bills inside, but they aren’t there, they never were, a daydream
of passing one over and seeing him smile, smiling back, and quietly
exiting with a: “shhh…”
but I’m broke too.
I ask weakly if there’s anything can be done.
ignoring the question,
he tells me that all of his good ****
is in hock so that he might get his sister
and his mama something nice.
and here I sat thinking hard, not smart, about
how sometimes it’s not Christmas,
sometimes it’s just a Friday.
“I’ve hocked my good **** before.” he says.
“Take a few months of being really flat to get it back.”
what the **** does really flat look like comparatively I wonder
but don’t ask.
“It’s about the giving.” he rumbles at me.
“It’s about showing the people that care about you
that you care about them too.”
reaching behind his massive self, he grins at me;
pulls a small, carefully wrapped box, from its hiding place.
“Open it.” he instructs.
and I do.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublucations; 2015
and I wouldn’t choose to do
anything else really.
sure, I’d write more or maybe
give a talk here or there if
they’d ask me, but then…
doing this thing in December
is the worst,
because you get to see just
how much poor these folks
are living in.
the quiet rumble of the big man
his voice like a rolling, roiling
thundercloud, not ready or willing
to unleash.
the snap and pop of the whole of him
as he stands to greet me is like the lightning
and his massive sigh as he returns to his recliner
is a gust of gray sorrow filling my sky.
“Look at this,” he says, “just look.”
I do; and I see the old scrub brush
Christmas tree he’s had his attendant
*****.
“There ain’t a ****** thing under there.” he says
to me and to the universe at large. “And, I’m already…”
I know what he means, as I sneak my litany in.
his answers are the same as always, he’s making
his way and in fair shape.
“I go to the pantry; sometimes to the church,” he continues.
“But, it’s hard to stand in line…last week was two hours for lunch.”
my mind runs to the wallet on my hip and the five crisp, new $100
bills inside, but they aren’t there, they never were, a daydream
of passing one over and seeing him smile, smiling back, and quietly
exiting with a: “shhh…”
but I’m broke too.
I ask weakly if there’s anything can be done.
ignoring the question,
he tells me that all of his good ****
is in hock so that he might get his sister
and his mama something nice.
and here I sat thinking hard, not smart, about
how sometimes it’s not Christmas,
sometimes it’s just a Friday.
“I’ve hocked my good **** before.” he says.
“Take a few months of being really flat to get it back.”
what the **** does really flat look like comparatively I wonder
but don’t ask.
“It’s about the giving.” he rumbles at me.
“It’s about showing the people that care about you
that you care about them too.”
reaching behind his massive self, he grins at me;
pulls a small, carefully wrapped box, from its hiding place.
“Open it.” he instructs.
and I do.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublucations; 2015
* a social worker poem.
