Your Saturday Poem
While you're saving the American economy, take a few moments to stop by your local bookstore and pick up a few books of poetry. American poets are an endangered species and, like Detroit auto workers, need our support. The few shekels they receive when you buy their collected works or new works is a big help and the payoff for you, dear and gentle reader, is priceless.
"Summer At Blue Creek, North Carolina" by Jack Gilbert
There was no water at my grandfather's
when I was a kid and would go for it
with two zinc buckets. Down the path,
past the cow by the foundation where
the fine people's house was before
they arranged to have it burned down.
To the neighbor's cool well. Would
come back with pails too heavy,
so my mouth pulled out of shape.
I see myself, but from the outside,
I keep trying to feel who I was,
and cannot. Hear clearly the sound
the bucket made hitting the sides
of the stone well going down,
but never the sound of me.