Will

My father left me his wool shirts
And a promise that I would take whiskey
And cured hams to the family
Of the man he shot fifty something years ago

All through high school and college
I kept his word
And wore his shirts
Until I had to go away

Well I got a PhD in astronomy
Then came back home to teach
After awhile I intended to pay them a call
Soon as things cooled off

But the nights got longer
I kept putting things off
Hoping I would discover this star
I knew was there

One day in the planetarium
Word came I was a bastard so
I rode out to the country
With a kid in a logging truck

We talked over things
Ate supper and swore
I slept in a wild feather bed with two others
The next morning I walked back to town

Now I shoot pool all day
With the guys my age
And run around at night
Like a bloodhound with a lost voice

The old colleagues see me sometime
They wave me down
Wanting to talk
But I no longer have anything to say

In the tavern
The old men who knew my father
Get drunk to tell me
What a no count I am

So I gave them the beautiful shirts
The houndstooths and plaids
And the herringbone
With the sewn-over bullet hole

I do my reading at daybreak
When there are the fewest stars
And the kid saws logs in the school bus
And the leaves leave their books

I left the heavens for the taverns
And the shirts for the old men on pensions
My coat is black
Like the nights I have long forgotten

© Ginny Stanford