For my Dad, Cerel M. Jones Old Judge Coffee, Old Spice, Camel Straights Outside my October frosted window The rooster on his roost struts in barnyard dreams Reveille asleep in his ruby throat I’m perched on the edge of the bed rubbing sleep rimmed eyes The yawn on my smooth face surprised into a boyish grin bare feet on October linoleum Shivering into red flannel and blue jeans Wool socks in felt boots. Shivering too with anticipation This morning we ease on down into the woods. Morning aromas beckon me to the farm kitchen hickory crackling in a wood stove bacon and eggs dancing in hot grease brown brew gurgling in the glass bulb From behind a cloud of steam and smoke A white headed man in frayed khaki sips from a chipped green cup between puffs. My Father smells of Old Judge Coffee, Old Spice, Camel Straights Shotguns are checked Chambers are empty Blue steel married to dark walnut Given when I could be trusted with death Hunting coats hang patiently in the mud-room Slipping into worn safari cotton duck Shells arrayed in their lethal nests The garment of a predator stuffed with Hershey bars The little terrier whines in anticipation Mickey, his name was Mickey Slipping silently out of the house don’t slam the door, Mom’s asleep The lighted windows behind are part of another world as we ease on down into the woods Father, son and mongrel dog Trinity of boyhood out walking predawn Eden Into the greater darkness of the deep woods Apparitions slipping through a moonlit jungle I follow my Father three steps then we wait ten steps to listen Ears for eyes in the acoustic darkness rustling canopy of October Whippoorwill conversations Nostrils open to feral odors The smell of wild things rotting leaves and sassafras Black Walnuts in their pungent molting Night musk of all things fertile And from ahead in the darkness The smell of manhood Old Judge Coffee, Old Spice, Camel Straights A line of sun-fire races across the upper leaves A blaze that leaves the night in ashes. Still, watching from my stand The rustle of leaves The scratch of claw on bark The bushy red tail and gleaming eye seen through gun sights Deaf to the roar Numb to the kick Falling, fallen, still Mickey drops the limp form at my feet Red eye forever open Wondering how. From across the hollow comes the roar of Dad’s twelve gauge. Sweet stench of cordite The hunting coat is heavy as we walk home. Still walking three steps Then waiting ten. Just to hear the woods preach to the winds. To inhale feral life And from ahead, the smell of manhood Old Judge Coffee, Old Spice, and Camel Straights. dancereljones
Posted on: Sat, 15 Jun 2013 23:31:06 +0000
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