This from "Delights & Shadows," by Ted Kooser
On the Road
By the toe of my boot,
a pebble of quartz,
one drop of earth's milk,
dirty and cold.
I held it to the light
and could almost see through it
into the grand explanation.
Put it back, something told me,
put it back and keep walking.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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This from the compilation, Sunday Crunchy Eggs and Black Bacon
By Rod Robbins & Marty Stieger
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Crackin the Cosmic egg, West Texas style
It was hotter than hot, noon was not-nowhere a-near.
The sun was still fence jumping the East-West Texas frontier.
Hot enough to fry an egg now- As we talked the talk.
It was a hotter than hot on cast-iron skillet sidewalk.
Sun staggered sideways hand rail grabbin crazy drunk shinin beacon.
Talk was talked, bets were made, dollars handed to Deacon.
Tucked them into vest pocket for “True as Texas Rose” holdin.
Stickey hopped into Rosie’s Kuntry-Kitchen, came back all a-grinnin.
Arm forward, fingers jailing, white egg tiptop and fine.
I held it cupped in my hands, heart flutter still love, a Dove warming time.
Mama Hen empties cradle, cuts apron strings. County fair judge's advantage, to settle who wins.
I stepped towards Stickey’s truck, drew down a bead in my sight.
Stickey’s side mirror had chalked marked the sidewalk, blinding whiter then bright.
Doanie knew then, not this again, didn’t protest, for no-fear;
We don’t call it for nut-tin, “Honest Texas Cheatin” down heya.
I chased out the dust. Crow flapped Black Mex-Stetson well worn.
Baby wind devils dervishin down from a demon dark storm.
Cosmic egg held reverent, thumb nail found future crack.
The wet sacrifice-marked the target dead center-smack.
Perfect placement on bright wrecked-angle warmed pavement.
With a cigarette’s-worth of time till the mirror square wakes in amazement.
Realizin baking job aint there no more, it’l up’n mosey lazy on to the general store.
Little texas yellow sun settled, Clear circle spread out then stopped.
It’s edges curved magnifiers, sand grains blown-up to boulders and rocks.
The moment of clarity passed on slowly, like a drunk’s midday resolution.
Couldn’t tell ya zactly when crystal clear clouded, and hazed the solution.
Coldn’t tell ya neither, when, white wing finally covered gray flint.
Doanie’s lower lip cigarette was still a-hang-danglin unlit.
Then the reflection went up the store steps with its business to-be-makin.
Deacon’s vest unfolded, moneyed new hands, hands again shaken.
I bent down and Bowie flat-filleted it, no sense in-let it go a-wastin.
Yellow yolk marked my chin down, my own cold blade I was tasting.
My teeth tracked right onto a trace gravel grit, so I bent back down to target, and spit back-out on it.
Gonna be a long day, an still too early in the mornin to tongue-mull that much gritty reality
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