How To Sort It
by Sydney Lea
That womanís husband works night shifts in a warehouse someplace.
Heís a big man, and sleeps all day. I bet
he drinks. But what do I know? Dark clouds are stealing in...
Well, no they arenít. Thatís poetry, and bad at that.
Sheís a headstone color: gray hair, gray face,
her hooded sweatshirt dull, like a sheet of old tin.
Itís as though she canít look forward to much but death and the grave.
Her eyes are gray, though itís too easy
to call them empty. Their tears might so easilyĖ flow. Oh no.
Iím hunting around for eloquence here and coming up empty.
The woman and I just nod at each other
as we wait at the post office window. Though Iím an old man now,
I go on looking toward some sort of future.
Iím a big man too, which may be why
that woman shrinks. Or I think she does.
We all like the postmistress, whoís old herself but spry,
and despite her loss still cheerful and bright.
Her hairdoís new. I recall her husband, who was
a person people here always called Big Mike.
Some old folks claim the man could lift a barrel
brimful of hard cider right over his head. Iíd like to imagine
some tribute to Mike. Iíd write it, if that were feasible.
A character, Mike. He drove a truck
heíd brush-painted pink. He lived with his wife and children
and a bunch of critters and mixed-breed hunting dogs far back
in the woods. In time the kids grew up
and moved from here, but the family, we remember,
seemed always so decent and gentle with one another.
The postmistress wears that shirt she loves.
Itís a pretty shirt. Now what shall I call it? Purple?
Fuschia? Puce? And how might I portray good and evil?
I wish I knew. Let the clouds above,
the God-damned clouds, steal in. No, let them hurtle.
Sydney Lea is poet laureate of Vermont. His tenth collection of poems, I Was Thinking of Beauty, has lately been published by Four Way Books. His third collection of personal essays, A North Country Life: Tales of Woodsmen, Waters, and Wildlife, is available from Skyhorse Publishing. (6/2013)