I was thinking of you, sister,
for thirty years driving a rural route.
You had a stick to check mailboxes for snakes.
Watching cows, horses, coyotes through 4 seasons of dry.
Before and after the casino, you drove the reservation.
Everybody, including you, loved the medicine man.
He often waved uproad, came to the box to collect his mail,
have a chat, compare local news.
It was your business to know, the both of you.
He's dead now, but there's a mountain where he worked.
Do you sometimes passing, pause there to remember him?
He'd be pleased your son now works for the tribe.
I once went with you to the grocery to get milk, a five minute drive.
It took us an hour and a half.
You found out about new babies, sick horses, break-ins, beauty tips,
gas prices, birthdays, feuds, expectations,
assumptions, jokes.
I needed to be introduced, again and again and again.
You apologized.
"There's no quick out here."
Now
your broken back keeps you in a chair,
a room, far into the city,
listening to demands and complaints.
The callers don't know you're the one
who laughed with the lonely or
brought daughter's letters.
You memorized roads, children, faces, dogs,
remembered the history of houses, the fires,
and detours. It's all inside you, drift,
among the donuts, curses, and strangers.
Three more years to go, you tell me.
I think of you, sister,
car carrying you up the shaman's mountain.
You're looking out,
lingering in the length it took to get there.
for thirty years driving a rural route.
You had a stick to check mailboxes for snakes.
Watching cows, horses, coyotes through 4 seasons of dry.
Before and after the casino, you drove the reservation.
Everybody, including you, loved the medicine man.
He often waved uproad, came to the box to collect his mail,
have a chat, compare local news.
It was your business to know, the both of you.
He's dead now, but there's a mountain where he worked.
Do you sometimes passing, pause there to remember him?
He'd be pleased your son now works for the tribe.
I once went with you to the grocery to get milk, a five minute drive.
It took us an hour and a half.
You found out about new babies, sick horses, break-ins, beauty tips,
gas prices, birthdays, feuds, expectations,
assumptions, jokes.
I needed to be introduced, again and again and again.
You apologized.
"There's no quick out here."
Now
your broken back keeps you in a chair,
a room, far into the city,
listening to demands and complaints.
The callers don't know you're the one
who laughed with the lonely or
brought daughter's letters.
You memorized roads, children, faces, dogs,
remembered the history of houses, the fires,
and detours. It's all inside you, drift,
among the donuts, curses, and strangers.
Three more years to go, you tell me.
I think of you, sister,
car carrying you up the shaman's mountain.
You're looking out,
lingering in the length it took to get there.
