6888. UNCLE GONE WAS UNCLE GONE

UNCLE GONE WAS 

UNCLE GONE

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.