by Joseph Milosch
Torrey pines,
buckwheat,
black sage,
and beside a granite
boulder
deer tracks,
rabbit droppings,
a coyote’s nose
sniffing,
rubbed on dirt,
licked.
A wind blown cloud
descends slopes,
coats windows,
exhaust stacks,
and vinyl seats
of dozers.
I remove
the ripper’s pin
with hammer – punch.
Feel sweat,
fog,
steel, dirt,
later
rain.
After work
I drive home in darkness
undress
in the work shed,
scrape mud
from my boots,
bang mud off socks,
off knees of jeans.
I run to the kitchen
wearing
jacket,
shorts,
sandals.
Smell tamale makings
chile, masa
garlic, pork,
as Patsy’s fingers
caked
in dough and lard
are cool
on my thighs.
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
Joseph,
Right off the bat: thank you for a true poem. Sound and Sense of a personal experience that transcends and becomes universal. May I add a “workday” not… St. Distaff’s Day when “women’s work: such as loading the distaff with unspun wool that feeds unspun wool to the spinning wheel. Ploughmen, not yet back to work, were expected to play practical jokes –– setting the wool on fire? Hah! In expectation, a bucket of water ready to douse the fire and the fellow. Simplier times, eh? Your poem brought fresh thoughts of our friend, Bill Stone, who passed away August 22, just short of his 80th birthday. He was a wonderful painter and a poet to boot. One Christmas in London, this haiku sent home:
bells fill the air
with changing ring
the faithful called
Peace at home and in the world,
Neal Whitman