Why can’t it ever run backwards,
pause by a fishing hole
and catch a glimpse
of that sixty pound
granddaddy trout,
shiver with the
skinny little kid
jumping into April water,
spy on the old woman
spinning about
on an inner tube
stuck in an eddy,
feel dizzy
watching fall leaves
turn to green to pink
to trees that are bare,
defy gravity,
fly on the backs
of fish clambering
skyward
to the plateau
above the range?
The old woman,
does she ever escape?
I laid a road map on the table.
Henry joined me, settling himself
neatly along one fold.
“Where would you like to go?” I asked.
He sniffed the Catskills,
perused Savannah, ignored New Jersey.
The day was raining and raw.
He led me to our favorite chair
and climbed onto my lap,
his warm, tubby body heavy
against me. We napped.
To fill his evening he tackled Gus,
gave Fannie a bath she didn’t want,
and tried to trip me.
“Henry, what is the matter?”
“I’m Ruler Kitty,
and I have nothing to rule.”
I sat at the table and pulled
the map toward us. He aligned
himself between the Rockies
and the Mississippi River.
“Where should we go, Henry?”
“Let’s start at my back door –
– where the world begins.”
She looks typical,
a woman of 50 or 60 –
wearing a gray, wool felt hat
against the December rain,
brown boots and jeans,
a jacket, nondescript.
She pushes herself to walk up
the slight incline along Main Street
and talks out loud
as if to a companion,
smiles a response,
goes on to reply.
That won’t be me one day.
Oh no. Trust me.
That’s me now.
buffaloed 