March 27, part three: aware (5 minutes)

aware of the cars at the crosswalk.

aware of the man peeping at me over his newspaper.
aware of what I say and to whom I say it.
aware of my daily activities, following the list.
aware of the guardrail protecting the visitors from a nasty fall.
aware of the key in which to sing the song.
aware of the hair and the high hallelujahs.
awareness is next to godliness.
aware, beware, stay there, next year.
aware in the morning, aware in the afternoon.
aware of the goggles, pressed against the temples, keeping the water out.
aware of the things the eyes can see if they're kept open.
aware of a mother's love, a mother bird, a mother cat, a mother giraffe.
aware of the tags on new clothes, prickling at the neck, causing a scratch.
aware of the sounds in the movie theater, people whispering, crunching popcorn, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
aware of what the preacher says about my soul.
aware of the spring---

March 27, part two: waiting for a train (10 minutes)

waitin all day for a goddamn train. smoked the butts that lie about my sore old feet, smoked em down till the fire burned my fingers, aching, thick, ugly fingers. Hungry, the smell of the ties, the oil, the tar in them smells good. I could eat a railroad tie if I could get it up.

this train will take me to a wonderful place, to a restaurant or a small town where nobody knows me, where there'll be ladies from churches who'll give me food and wash me up, pray over me. I got no problem with that so long as they give me somethin to eat. Maybe I'll find food in the train car. A grain car or a grocery car. I'll eat raw grain, it don't matter to me. Chew it up in my mouth as the train goes rackety-rack rackety-rack along the track.

I'll sit and watch the country go by, never seen this part of the country before. Been east and west and south of here but I never been north. I know it'll be cold there, but that's not for months to come. I might not even be alive then no more, specially not if I don't get a bite to eat, so I ain't gonna worry about that right now if it means I eat.

if this train ever comes. I been here all day, got nothing left to do but wait. Too tired to walk anymore. I walked all night to get here cause I was told there'd be a train. A morning train that bum told me. Don't trust a goddamn bum cause they tell lies more than they tell the truth. They can't help it, it's just the way they're made.

Not me. I try to be honest as much as I can. With my words and with my actions. Only steal when I can't find no other way. I am sure the lord will forgive me for that. What's a man to do? The lord's got his hands full up there in heaven. He don't---

March 27, part one: dad (15 minutes)

(from Writing Down the Bones)

12. Describe a grandparent.

Dad is 93 years old. His birthday was yesterday. His party was Saturday. Family reunion in Bigtown. He's all alone now. It'll be two years comes July. He loves to pray, loves the Lord. Says "Father Lord" a lot when he prays. We and our cousins were the last to call him Dad. My mother's much younger brother's kids call him Papa. Seems like a weird name for him after everyone unanimously called him Dad for all those years. He sits in his rocking chair facing the TV, facing the fireplace. I don't think he watches TV much. Only to watch the PTL Club and the 700 Club and Fox news perhaps. He used to watch All In The Family. That's the show I remembered him watching when I was a kid. He had a hushed, repetitive laugh, huh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh. Sounded like it couldn't quite get started, it wouldn't even go all the way down to his belly. He has lots of rituals which have seemed to become all the more important since Nana died. He has to take a nap at about one-thirty or two every afternoon. It is an exact time, I just don't know what it is. The birthday party grounded to a halt, everybody went outside to the patio or the driveway so Dad could take his nap. I went to visit my Aunt B. down the street. Not an actual relative, or so far removed as to not count, her mother and my Nana's mother were sisters. Still, she's my favorite aunt. I used to go home with her on Sundays after morning church and got brought back for the evening service.

Dad has scars on his skull and arms. He worked in the oil fields when he was young. Caught fire one time. I guess it was pretty serious. They had to graft skin from his legs. He used to bath in Lake Livingston. They had a piece of property there and put their little blue and silver travel trailer on it with a full-sized refrigerator attached to a tree outside in the yard. Eventually they built a big A-frame house. The whole family helped. Everybody in the family was involved in construction of some sort. The men anyway. Except for my mother's older brother C. But he brought his long-term "roommate" who was a chef, and he made all kinds of scrumptious foods and so nobody ever said anything about C. not helping out with the construction of the house. Not to where I could hear anyway.

The family has lots of secrets. Dad and Nana had a son who died on Halloween---