What I 'Felt' To Say Was...

Remains Of The Day

author's note:
          This eclectic book contains little prose this long, however I feel this bit is worth sharing.  Most of my poetry is short and quick to read, so please bear with me. 

Maybe it's ok to print the last page first... sometimes the last page is the next beginning...

Remains  Of  The  Day

          If not for the dulling of decades, a settling of dust, and that old Apollo cat, the weary sun would glint marvelously from the tin of the old round back barn. When it was new, generations ago, it must have been a proud sight with its original asphalt shingles.  The heat like today still cooked the ancient tar smell out of the high, curved ceiling along with the pine pitch.  The old childhood friend had always felt to him like a cathedral, or a gigantic capsized ship, though dwarfed 20:1 by the grassy wave of blow sand that seemed poised to drown it.  Now though, it's weary back sagged low in the middle, like the neglected saddle inside that once carried the old cattleman of the K bar.

          His face, and hands, his voice, even his few words, all seemed to be of the same basic stock as that saddle, worn smooth in places for the light to slide against, cracking and split in others where small annoyances had pestered the hide from some long- forgotten bull for a longer lifetime. All darkened by the same sun, wind, worries, and incidental little bloodlettings that became a staple of life in a world where everything had either fangs, horns, or spines.  Even the fences were sharply barbed, the mottled patchwork of his scarred hands stood silent testament.

          It seemed the only soft thing in this whole county was the grass, yet even then, only for a few months in the spring, before the cheatgrass ripened and gave way to the needle grass of June, the saw grass of July, and finally the sinister goat head seeds and sand burrs of August that seemed to linger until buried by melting snow.  The land lacked enough mean spikes to make a Texan feel at home, excepting maybe the jumping cactus, but to young locals and outsiders... well, the thousands of little annoyances could sneak up on them like going ultra broke before you realize how foolish debt is. The old timers were right, you never notice a lot of things until the season changes with a particular day and you realize you've been through hell with no real blame to cast but inward.

          Maybe the women could seem soft when young things or a sly glance at their figure with a crooked grin got their attention, but the ones that stayed in these hills seemed to take on the sinewy strength and quiet of the country.  Made it seem almost magical to him when cracked and calloused hands turned to velvet with a touch... but the women and grass couldn't lay claim to having the only softness in that country, for plenty of babies were rocked in the wee hours while wives drifted unaware of the true meaning of their own 'beauty rest'.

          The sagging old barn, worn out custom saddle, scarred leathery skin, gravelly voice, drouthy grass... rusty old truck... hell, everything he could see or remember in the settling dust... they all felt as his soul did... tired, neglected, abused... unsure of the future, yet excited to live the next chapter, confident this is the moment just before the big comeback. The part where the author leaves you to ponder on lessons and glean what you can from the depths of reflection while awaiting the next book to plunge you into its world of your own imagination.

          He sighed and stirred when he realized he had been squinting into the sun.  From the same breast pocket where he used to keep the sweet little cigars and Zippo for moments like this, he fished out his tally book and Anson pencil with the same habitual flip, quietly lit a poem, inhaled deep, and watched it gently wash and coil around the dusty remains of the day.