From P.F.S. Post (2008)
I couldn't be more or less than I was then,
could I? But like a person, thought I could.
Standing beside the picnic table—
beside myself— mimicked hands, hello, and mouth.
Said yessir, pleasesir, thankyou— I watched
the boats go south. I waved goodbye, dutifully. I bore
the empty wine bottle to the basket, shoo-ing flies.
But all day he'd been leaning—mast and pole—
he had us cleaning the underside of the belly,
all along the bulwark and the bow. I had tools then,
didn't I? Steel wool, toothbrush, tar. Once
I tarred a roof, rewired a house. I was small;
I could fit into crevices. But only like a person.
I was a child: rest and enervation. I could as easily
lie down now in rows of soybeans, as against
the plaid flannel of your shirt, smelling of gasoline.
© Mary Walker Graham 2008
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