How I wish to sail away in my little skiff
And high on the waters, live out the rest of my life.
– Su Tung-p’o (“Immortal at the River”)
Harold and Nettie kept accounts of all the local
farmhands in a shoebox, cashed their checks
and paid their bills on Saturdays,
the balance spent behind the neon blue
Burgie sign in the dark-half of the store—
worn men glancing-out into the blinding light
at the wagonload of soda pop bottles
we gleaned from weeds along the road
to trade for Cokes and candy.
They offered ‘Flying A’ gasoline before
they moved the grocery to the Yokohl
when they widened the highway,
keeping busy into old age until
a week after Harold retired
to his skiff on high waters.
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