It was hot and my motel room felt like a coffin.
I left while the leaving was good, at least
Possible, and drove my amalgamation
Of memories, parasites, commensals,
And laboriously breathing multicellular animal
Back up into the high valleys where families
Had spent Sunday afternoon after church,
Picnicking and kibitzing until weekend’s end.
I paused by the half-hidden historical marker
Locating an 1860s keg factory, two men making
Buckets, churns, kegs, and barrels by splitting
These pines for staves. Lasted a decade.
The trees long since regathered, at least their offspring,
At least here by the protected, historical spring.
A mule deer doe moves a grey shape in the shade.
I wouldn’t mind coming up here more often,
Were it convenient, for peace, now and again,
But I’m here to doze, old Rip Van Winkle, not
To hunt the doe, hack the trunks, take orders
For practical contraptions to bang together
Or mend. I’m not going to bend to further labor
Except insofar as the hungry world makes me.
They also made the occasional coffin, those men.
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