Of loons, lakes, and luck (Helen's husband, 1899-1983)
When he was 84, he rarely recalled The Great War, though he left a finger somewhere In French soil, and on deep sleep nights, Few and far between, it would call him A spectral image of gas dead faces Drifting through like sallow clouds In the charcoal sky
His nephew was the only one left To fish these green waters, to court the steady Trout that he too saw in his dreams--all the others, Even his own sons, marching in the concrete squares Of the cities, visiting now and then like peddlers Hawking wares he could not understand... Soccer games and mutual funds Gourmet feasts at eateries With cryptic names
The lake was still the same The loons chatting, the waves lapping But without his Helen, the fish he caught Were usually granted reprieve, saved from His sharp gutting blade, her sizzling skillet, And without her beside him under her ancient quilts, The nights were not longer, for grief, he knew, Did not stretch time, but only Made its circle smaller
Was a sun sated Saturday When the nephew had honey do's as good excuses And the old man was left alone, sitting by a black rotary phone, Waiting for one of his old nine digits to dial the new nine and two ones, It is what they all would have expected, a cry for help, a long mute ambulance ride, them seeing him helpless with hoses and wires, delaying the funeral pyres, as was the custom in this post teen century
Instead, though he felt the anvil on his chest, And sweat drenched his JC Penney work shirt, He moved not his feeble fingers to the phone, but his fated feet To the lake, once only a long a hop from the porch, now a mammoth journey, ten, twelve Sisyphus steps downhill--when he reached the waters edge, the fowl called him casually, their slow song on the currents, And he sat in the fresh grass, watching the painted blue sky He saw the fins of those he had set free, hoping That would count for something When he curled in fetal repose, And closed his eyes By this lonely lake
When chaos is about And the world turns dark Take leave to the midnight lake Surrounded by the sighing willows It is there you will find me Soothing my battered soul To the mournful cry of the loons
