UNCLE GONE WAS
Uncle Gone was Uncle Gone, Aunt Maybe was
just that. I couldn't ever tell the difference, though
they had a really nice house. My mother used to pine:
'I hate to go back to my matchbox', she used to say after
every visit. Funny like that. We'd sit on the Rutherford
porch - I was only a kid - and the adults drinking beer
and me having soda, we tried to compare notes. I always
thought my stories were better; theirs were all about work.
Rutherford, East Rutherford. I never knew the difference,
and all I knew was that William Carlos Williams lived right
down the street. A famous poet, to my day and eyes, who
masqueraded for them as a doctor of kids. How to figure that -
a pediatrician or whatever they're called, delivering babies and
delivering words. His stories, I knew, were better than anyone
else's could ever there be. Oh just to have a beer with He.