Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Tuesday in CinCity

Air

by Ruth Stone



Through the open window, a confusion

of gasoline fumes, lilacs, the green esters of grass.

Edward Waite rides the lawn mower.

Each summer his voice is more stifled. His emphysema is worse.

"Three packs a day," he says, still proud of the fact.

Before he got sick, he drove semis across the country.

Every two weeks he drives his small truck up the mountain.

He mows in long rows fitting swath to cut swath, overlapping the width.

To please me he saves the wild paintbrush along the edge.

Stripped to the waist, I see he has hung his blue shirt

on my clothesline to dry out the sweat.

The shirt, with its arms upraised, filled with the body of air,

is deeply inhaling, exhaling its doppelgänger breath.

1 comment:

  1. I liked this a lot. Off to search out more by same poet.

    ReplyDelete

Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)