I’m upstairs. Writing. Drinking beer.
Outside the leaves are turning over,
I read we may see a storm tonight.
I hope we do.
You’re downstairs. With our son.
I can say now that I know it’s not nothing.
I’d like for my college English teacher to read that line.
I wouldn’t care for his opinion now, just as I didn’t then.
But! If you want to talk about my fifth grade teacher,
now that was a teacher and a great man.
When answering him you better reply correctly. Exacting.
Or, the eyebrow up, head down and the pointing of the finger
toward the hallway.
Anyway, I know now it isn’t nothing.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever know about it because I didn’t
understand if it truly was. Or, if it was another collected
thought process to hitch and wind all persons into the smallest of places.
When you come home, I watch him run to you. I am not a soft man. I feel soft when I see this. I release myself from anything but watching him and you. His little feet running,
arms swinging, with a toy shaking violently. I say, ‘Mamma’s home.’
The door doesn’t need to make a sound, he’s off to greet you.
I guess I can remember when I coached baseball for my brother. I guess I can admit to myself that these things took place, the things being feelings, took place and helped me to step closer to my understanding of this.
The wind is picking up outside. I don’t think it’ll storm. I hope it does. This beer is good and I’ll need another soon.
when i was young
i left that word alone
and all the word left me alone
when i needed it the most
and the trees can push back
against the wind
and a boy can hope
My beer is gone. It’s time I go downstairs and see why I’m fighting tears.
It is true. It isn’t nothing.