Year by Year

My friends are worried.

I’ve never been a person who has worried much about age,
about getting older.
I’ve always thought the alternative is much less appealing.

But they’re worried,
For this year I’m 29.

That’s meaningful, or so they tell me.

“You turn 30 this year.”

I wait for them to complete the sentence so that it shows some import,
but they’re done.

“Oh,” I say.

They are right though.
There is a huge issue bearing over me,
an issue that on this stormy,
snowy,
windy,
wonderful night
is nearly tragic in its scope.

You see,
I’ve outgrown my snow pants.
And I’ve given my gloves to a man who needed them more than me.
And all the shops are closed

Mechanical

I suppose at first it was like driving a car where the mechanic had put the nuts of one wheel on without tightening them.
You know the feeling, something’s wrong, but you can’t really tell what.
There seems to be a wobble in the steering,
But when you pay close attention, the wheel has straightened itself out,
And you hardly notice the vibration.

It must be just your imagination.

Eventually though, you’re sure something is wrong.
You mention it to the passengers in the car,
But they don’t seem to notice the problem.
You start to get more concerned, to insist
“Something’s not right here.”
But they just say, “Ah, you’re new to driving.
Relax, it’s nothing!”
You’re new behind the wheel. You trust those veteran drivers.

But now everyone is nervous.

The wheel is shaking madly, and hitting the brakes only makes it worse.
The vehicle is hurtling down the road, and the accelerator seems stuck.
You’re barreling towards the train tracks,
The safety arm starts to drop
And you know,
Everyone knows,
That you’re either going to go into the ditch on the left,
hit the train straight ahead,
or flip when you lose the wheel as you make a sharp right turn
to try and save your life.
And as the car’s occupants realize that they’re about to die a pointless and senseless death
They scream.
When a chorus of reasonable concern would have avoided all this fuss.

And the mechanic twists our nuts.

Indelible Marks II

A smoke only seems appropriate now, so I light one in my head.
I hear the soft puff and the slight wheeze as you inhale.
You took more breaths through a filter than you did without, I think.

The mill runs, and the saw whines.
We work, this motley crew.
The college boy, soft, fat, and useless.
The dwarf and the simpleton, hard, lean, and tireless.
The drunk, the dope fiends, the Jesus freak.
The one who has been a bit of it all.
We breathe cedar and strain our backs.
We swear and tease and laugh.
We do it for the pay cheque,
but we do it because of you.
These mills are obsolete now,
but yours works.

“Six be sixes to the Germans.
They turn ’em into camps
and sell those to the Japs!
What would Henry and Eddie say?”

We both know those old vets would say the same thing.
“Work, and damn the rest.”

I see you at your perch.
One elbow on the table.
One hand on your knee,
cigarette burning.
Coke bottle glasses on a bulbous nose.
You’ve just made a point. Taken a drag.
You squint your smile. I nod.
You speak of horses and sleds and old trucks with no brakes.
You do it with authority.
You value hard work, and the men and women who do it.

You curse those who don’t, who won’t.

We share your bottle, small glasses of rye and Pepsi.
In my mind we’re always alone, though I know that’s not true.
Dad is there in the rocker.
Edna bustles about the kitchen chatting politely, lighting you up with her smile.
(Her faded shadow filled you with grief.)
People drop in to pay for loads of wood,
to pay back money they’ve borrowed,
or just to have a drink with the Squire.

I’ll tell you something now,
something I could never have said when you were alive.
(Men don’t say such things
they shy away from them like they would
from the blast of a furnace
or a bucking chainsaw.)
I loved you like a father. Like an uncle.
Like a friend.

A long time after and half a world away,
and I’m crying in a bar in Kowloon.

Your saw is silent, Squire.
Seven quiet, lonely years
we’ve not heard its whine.
Blades are rusted, belts are rotten.
Nothing works.