Don’t think you know the fat woman
\nin charge of the dump, married
\nto the one laid up from the accident
\ntwo years ago at the pulp mill,
\nwho wears the easygoing, happy
\nface when you drive in with your load
\nof trash, calling her name. That’s not her.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
By the register at the store, truckers,
\ncarpenters and mill workers
\ncount their change while telling
\nthe morning clerk how they are:
\n“Not too bad.” “Could be worse.”
\n“Maintaining.”<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Billy Towle maintains. His mother,
\nhe explains after bush-hogging my field,
\nhas come down with All-timers
\nand begun calling him by his dead
\nfather’s name. He shakes his head:
\na sad situation, but even so,
\nyou can see he kind of likes it,
\nperhaps because in the All-time
\nof her mind, his father, whose death
\nshe mourned for years, can still be alive.
\nAlso because now, the one he’s always
\nloved most will always love him.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
People here don’t talk much
\nabout love. Listen for it
\nin other words – how old
\nEthelyn Palmer lingers slightly
\nover the word “grandchildren,”
\nor describes her new neighbors
\nwith what seems a fond
\ndescription of her own past
\nin this town: “They’re a young
\ncouple, just starting out.”<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
And just because they don’t speak
\nof beauty doesn’t mean they haven’t
\nnoticed it: the sunset’s astonishment
\nof red on the horizon, tinting the town’s
\ndownhill windows, for instance, or how
\nat night, in your headlight as you travel
\nthe last mile home, the feathery pines
\nalongside your car seem to gather
\nyou up in the wings of their dark flight.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
But what of the stranger at town meeting
\nwith the designer suit and perfect
\nmanners, sympathetic to everyone’s
\nquestions about his proposal to turn
\nLeFlamme’s back field into house lots
\nbecause he knows his audience can’t refuse?
\n“I would urge you to consider the large
\nincrease in your tax base,” he says.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Twelve years later his faded
\nsign with the lot map announces
\nMyPropertyForYou.com
\nto the ivy dangling from it
\nand the vestiges of a gravel road
\ncurving alongside power poles.
\nIn the enclosure of pines his men
\nplanted around lot 3, indentations
\nin the grass show where
\nthe deer slept. Swallows rest
\non the unused electric wire
\noff lots 6 and 7. And deeper still,
\nby the culverts where my dogs run,
\nwaves of daisies, buttercups,
\nIndian paintbrushes and Queen
\nAnne’s lace crest in the light wind,
\nmore wildflowers than in any
\nyear before. “Change doesn’t need
\nto be a bad thing,” he said.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Established by vanished farmers,
\nthe Grange Hall’s now
\na ceramics studio. The old school,
\nbought for one dollar, houses
\nthe town office, zumba classes,
\nand Story Time for kids.
\nA single-door rescue trailer
\nwith a giant American flag decal,
\nobtained after the scare of 9\/11
\nby a grant from Homeland Security,
\nrusts in the back. Having survived
\nthe Industrial Revolution,
\nthe regional school movement
\nand the rise of global terrorism,
\nour town’s still here.\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