The Old Man
On my weekly drives
to La Limpieza,
I sometimes see the Old Man
walking on the shoulder
of the road.
He is gray-bearded,
and calvitied. He wears
a tattered black suit.
He lugs a filthy sheet
knapsack upon his
back. He never thumbs,
nor pleads for a ride
with his sun-bleached eyes.
he walks slowly, determinedly,
much slower of course
than the cars and trucks
that blow by inches
from his shoulder.
I never see him stopped,
sitting down, drinking
coffee in a truck stop.
He is always walking,
always walking.
The Horseback Vet
My white pickup was splashing mud
when I leapt out
near the wood in lot twenty-one.
A cow was lying on her side,
her eyes rolled back,
throat gurgling air.
A calf was stuck halfway out
of the uterus, bloody faced, tongue lolled,
crimson bubbles popping from its nostrils.
I grabbed it by the forelegs
and tugged it out, cleared its nose
and throat with my fingers.
I pressed on the cow’s chest
every five seconds, then stroked
them both and whispered reassurances;
but I feared I had arrived too late
to prevent them from lifting
into eucalypti leaves.
Then He rode up behind me,
jumped from his horse,
syringes strapped to his belt.
He rubbed placenta on her nose
grabbed her by the tail and spun her around
so she could fully scent her calf.
We watched her wobble to her feet,
the calf roll over onto his stomach
and prick up his ears.
Stephen is the author of The Timbre of Sand and Still Dandelions. He holds a BA from Columbia University and an MFA from Bennington College. He is the recipient of The Jess Cloud Memorial Prize for Poetry, a Writer-in-Residence with stipend from the Montana Artists Refuge, a full Writer Fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center, an Imagination Grant from Cleveland State University, and an Arvon Foundation Ltd. Grant. |
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