WALKWAY AT THE AGWAY
Right along the railroad tracks,
where they keep those derelict
trains : Old paint, broken down
lettering, and missing parts and
pieces, they sit. The Agway store
just up from the caboose sells all
the farmer stuff one needs. There's
a jumpy cat there too, which always
seems to bound into an open car door
as if just to say hello, snoop around,
press its nose onto what it finds. A
curious silence, the kind that binds.
-
'Meow.' It seems to think but never
says. I throw the bag of soil into
the pick-up's rear. To my wife, I
utter 'Why are you buying soil
here? There's soil everywhere?'
She says I don't understand, and
begins to fill me in (a soil joke at
a live-man's grave?) about all kinds
of different grades and additives, all
that mulch and topsoil and coverage
stuff I really don't care a damn about.
-
I let it go. She's happy with all that,
and I get to walk the trainyard. The
store itself, the few times I've gone
inside, really does enchant: rows of
open nuts and bolts, twines and ropes,
no one bothering you while you look at
lights and shoes, axes and boots. Oils,
grease and lubricants. You can see
Paradise by the tool-shelves' lights!
-
The lady and the girls at the checkout
seem to know just about everyone they
speak to. It's a happy spot, if you're into
weather, prognostications, how the water's
are running and where the turkeys hide.
I just go along for the interesting ride,
while the wife claims 'This dirt is better
than anyone else's!'
No comments:
Post a Comment