Poem for Friday, April 5, 2013

These Days Have Passed

My grandfather, who gave me my round countenance and sharp
ears, was a butcher by trade. He could cut and slice shanks just
like he could breathe.


One afternoon long ago, when most roads were gravel and Russia
was our main concern, he was fired from his job at a local super-
market. The manager


happened in the walk-in freezer, and there stood Angus, cleaver
in one hand and shiny silver flask in the other. Bloody-aproned.
Expression unknown.


I cannot say who was the manlier: the butcher juggling whiskey
and meat, or the man who had the courage to terminate him
without wetting himself.


I cannot remember from whom I heard this--my mother or my
grandmother--but I listened to them tell it, probably on a blue-
skied day, over a glass


of iced tea or a cigarette, against the background noises of my
lost generation, like it was the most important thing my ears and
heart would ever accept.