Still Here

The stove's balky. Won't catch.

I coax it with a match, talk to it

the way you talk to mules.

*

Somebody's laid by a garden down the road

where no house stands. Beans climb

dead strings. Squash gone to seed.

*

My dentist says I grind my teeth at night.

*

Revival's on at the brush arbor.

You can hear them clear to the ridgetop

not words, just the sound of wanting

pushed out into the dark.

*

Saw a boy carrying water

in two lard buckets, yoke across his shoulders.

Thought that he was done. Thought wrong.

*

There's a rock house back of the property

where somebody carved initials, and 1892.

Deep grooves. Took them all day, I reckon.

Whoever they were is bones now,

but the letters are there.

I asked myself once why I don't leave.

Didn't have an answer then.

Don't need one now.

*

The garden keeps. The stove lights

when it's ready. I'm still here

come morning, come winter,

come whatever's coming.

Not much else to say about it.