BREAKFAST WITH BOB

It must have been near 3 a.m.
When I came out of the
Coffee Gallery
I was one hundred miles of driving
Away
From a job
That called for me at 6

I'd clocked out at 3 p.m.
Climbed into that ol' '56 Ford
And put the hammer down
There was a poetry reading
I wanted to hear
In North Beach
Just another knuckle draggin' Red Neck
Workin'
To feed my kids
And chasin' the Words when I could

As I headed down
Grant Avenue
There was the ghost of a man
In a doorway

"Hey Bob,
Want some breakfast?"

"Sure."

And we ambled on down Grant
To that bright, brittle place
That was there
To serve the needs
Of such as us

Later as we sat and chewed
The greasy hashbrowns
And limpid eggs
I asked him,
"Bob, I don't always understand what
you are doing with those
Jazz Poems. Can you help me out?"

In that bright, brittle light
He forked in another mouthful
Of greasy hashbrowns
And when he finished chewing
He swallowed and said,

"Ben,
You Okies got your own way
Of talking
Pay attention. It will all
Work out in the wash."

Then his strong black hand
Came across the table
And my strong white hand
Reached out
As we shook
And looked long
Into each other's eyes
The way men
Were meant to

Later,
When we parted at the door
We shook hands again,
Though this time not as strong
As we were both
Preparing our heads
For what the day would bring


ON BECOMING AN ELDER OF THE TRIBE
(Under Protest)
For Jayne & David--Who Weren't Here,
But Probably Should Have Been
(O.K. Put That Goddamn Hammerhead Sweeney In Here Too)


They come around--
The Kids
Who were Kids
When I still I thought I was--
& They have that
long look in their eyes
& sometimes they can't even ask
the right questions
& still they expect
the right answers

& I look long into their sudden eyes
& all I can give them are my words
& what is left of my life

& when they are gone
I wonder if it is enough
but I realize it has to be
because
it is all I have to give
it is all that is left
of whatever I have done

They are not like the town kids
who haunt the river
in this late heat of summer

The town kids
see me watching them
& they respond
in a friendly
way that acknowledges
my watching them watching me


No,
These kids
are growing up in
a different way--
--the way we all did
a way
that even I
can appreciate

they are growing up & out

& when they can't
handle their lives
or their women
or their men

they come around
and they sit here
in this shade by
the river
& they mumble about things
none of us are sure of

& I mumble back at them
& I check out their tackle boxes
& we talk about fishing trips
we most likely
won't have time to make
& I tell them to keep
their hooks
sharp
just as I was told
by those older
wiser
men & women
who came through my life
& left their marks
in ways that would astound even their
most well promised mothers

& I turn up the stereo
& I listen to words
from an old man
that I knew when we
were both young enough
to believe
that the river would
always run for us


WHY I WRITE

I write for that trucker
Runnin' up 395
With the hammer down
Speakers at full bore
While his two kids sleep
In a little town in Idaho

I write for that cowboy in Nevada
Whose ass screams at him
Because he has just
Spent 15 hour in the saddle
Chousing a bunch of steers
That won't  pay the fuel bill
To haul them off

I write for that waitress
In Hermiston, Oregon
Who just pulled a double
And opened her mail
At home
To find out that her ten year old daughter
Needs orthodontics work
Costing $1200 which is more
That she will take home this month

I write for my brother
Who has asked for a poem
For twenty years
That I cannot given him

I write for my sons
In the hope that
They may know
Their father
In a way
That they could not
When it would have counted

I write
Because that is the job
I signed onto
Forty years ago

I write because
I can
And someone must.

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