Smoking outside the store
\nwith the trucker, who’s used
\nto being right, Stanley, the shy
\nclerk on break, agrees with him
\nthat his doctors don’t know
\na damn thing, then moves
\ntoward him, almost touching
\nhis back, while the trucker,
\nhis ragged beard shaking
\nwith the effort, tries to reach
\na tightness in his lungs
\nwith his shallow cough.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
“Love” is not the sort of word you’d expect
\nfrom a man wearing a camo jacket and boots
\nwho keeps his hunting dogs in a pen outdoors
\nso they won’t get spoiled, and an outdoors
\nman himself. But tonight under the lamplight,
\nhe’s one week into a fishing trip with nothing
\nto do but tell the others about the house-dog
\nhis wife at home talked him into, and how else
\nto explain without that word, why the dog can’t
\nstop whining whenever she’s away, and follows
\nher all over the house like a damn fool?<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Just after Francis, age 90, asks
\nthe customer at his apple orchard
\nin his loud voice what to do now
\nthat his watchdog has gone
\ndeaf, too, the dog shows up
\nin the driveway with his matted fur
\nand one gray eye, delighted to find
\nhis master there and lick his hand.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
The substitute minister, far off
\nat the pulpit, asks who’s new today
\nin church, then raises his own hand.
\nNobody laughs. It’s his voice
\nthat dazes them, a breezy, lighthearted
\ntone for a joke, a caring tone
\nfor sympathizing with their needs,
\na helpless tone for asking Christ,
\nin his everlasting love, to assist them.
\nUp close after the service,
\nas they shake his hand and look into
\nhis evasive eye, they see the voice
\nis how he protects himself from them.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
All through this November day
\nof troubles, when I reach unthinking
\ninto my pants pocket and touch
\nthe damp bills, I remember her,
\nthe quiet one with the bruised skin
\nunder her eyes from no sleep,
\ndumping out my wet empties
\nin the town redemption center
\nwith her young, gloveless hands,
\nas downcast in that dim room as I was.
\nStill she went on counting one
\nby one, in a rhythm that grew like
\na faithful, intimate song between us
\nuntil, pausing to wipe her palms
\nand press the bills into my hand,
\nshe smiled a big smile, the shock of it
\nseeming to lift me, lift us both, up
\nover the broken-down boxes and plastic
\nbags of used-up bottles and cans.\n
Follow McNair’s thinking about this poem through his revisions of it. (Line changes are highlighted in yellow; revised line breaks are indicated by yellow verticals.)<\/span><\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\t\t