Recall the dream you had the other night:

a hodgepodge structure, living room and porch,

people sitting out there in the dark, no light

but moon and stars, the flare of a kitchen match

at the bowl of papaw’s pipe- wasn’t he

a big man!- Prince Albert tobacco smoke, the wind.

The exposed room is full of cousins, see

the silhouettes of aunts and uncles, a friend

from second grade.  Try to read to them, to ease

the voice above the persistent grandfather clock’s

ticking.  Tomatoes, jalapenos, potatoes, peas-

the text has turned to gullion in your hand.

Mamaw, in her rocker in the corner darning socks:

why doesn’t he do something we all can understand.

reading

© philip kimball 2009

first published in I-70 REVIEW, Lawrence, Kansas, 2003

She asks you how you’re able to be alone

so much.  You’re good at it, upbringing.  Mama told

you once, remember:  early spring, the cold

sunny, dormant playground, harsh, the moan

and whistle of northwest wind through telephone

wires, sycamore leaves not yet unrolled–

nothing moves, nothing to grab and hold,

the desolate realization the world has grown

boring.  Went to Mama to complain.  She said:

in this life there will be a plenty of times when you

will be on your own.  Get used to it.  Out there like a fox

on pullets!  Get!  And have a good time.  You head

into the open morning.  Nothing to do.

At the monkey bars, hide from the wind in a cardboard box.

©Philip Kimball 2002

first published in Coal City Review #17, Lawrence, KS.  2002