Tuesday, October 2, 2012

818 West Ash

Yellow, white trimmed, bungalow-style,
It doesn't seem like much.
But seeing the house at 818 West Ash
Reminds me that once
You bought it with her
Had dreams of filling it with kids,
Landscaping the backyard with field stone
From your family's farm.

And after she left
Sitting in the living room
We drank icy Bud Lights
From glass bottles clinking on our teeth
I tried to make you laugh
Because I hated to see a grown man cry
You smirked, commenting that now
You could afford to install central air.

I see now that it never got done,

Unfinished,
Along with the landscaping of field stone
In the backyard.
I wonder if the family who owns 
Your house now realizes
That a good man lived there once,
Dreamed to the hum of a window air conditioner
And gave everything he had to offer
For his country in a foreign land.


 

Catherine Schmidt

Monday, October 1, 2012

Scavengers


Buzzards, I think,
As I stand off to the side,
Detaching myself from the moment,
Not wanting to take part in the carnage.
    They, we, are like buzzards.
Picking at the bones,
Cracking them to get to the marrow.
Pulling at bits of flesh, each wanting our own piece
    Buzzards do not consider
That this carcass was once a living thing
It is only sustenance.
The past life does not matter now.
    I am like a buzzard too.
I want my piece of her, of the past.
My grandmother's quilt, my grandfather's Army medals.
The bread pans she used every Sunday, a shelf he made for her.
    We pick and pull, we scavengers.
I am disgusted by us, by myself, our circling predation.
I still crave my bits, pieces of their lives to sustain my memories.
A buzzard I must be, or I will have nothing of them.
                    Catherine Schmidt

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