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They Live in Brooklyn
Successful writers always live in Brooklyn,
in Park Slope, Bushwick, and in Williamsburg,
neighborhoods we can only dream of—
and we do. We’ve never been to Brooklyn,
though we’ve watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine,
and, years ago, that movie with the Fonz.
Still, it’s a place our imaginations
can barely fathom. Wet pavement reflecting
streetlights, we suppose, and restaurants
with names we can’t pronounce and constant
movement—subways, busses, taxis—
or Ubers. Here in Mountain Grove, we have
two Uber drivers: Chadburn, the Caseys’ boy,
and Mr. Singh. Here in Broken Arrow
at the Walmart Supercenter, we shop
for peaches and for Chips Ahoy! but in Brooklyn,
food is hand-delivered on an e-bike by someone
with a crooked smile. Here in Coffeeville,
behind the U-Haul rentals, we have a pine
as tall as an apartment building, and here
in Chugwater the winter snow is bright
as the lights strung across the Brooklyn Bridge.
But their coffee tastes better, we’re certain of it.
Their sushi doesn’t taste like trout bait from a jar.
Their first book is coming out with Knopf.
Our first book is coming out from Kinkos.
They are young, and we are old, sitting here
in a booth at the Gackle Tastee-Freez—
farmers talking weather, talking tractors
and the evils of CRT, while we pen our verse
in spiral notebooks. We write about the seasons,
while they are mapping out the bitter end
of civilization on their laptops,
moving through their city at the speed
of thought. O, were we in Brooklyn, what
might we have written, what might we not be!
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Two Hurricanes
My father tells everyone at assisted living
that he drove through two hurricanes to wed
my mother. It’s a story that draws laughter
and applause each time he repeats it, and I’m surprised
the number of hurricanes hasn’t grown
to three or four or five.
But later, when we’re alone,
he tells another version, one that rings truer:
The two hurricanes interrupted a round robin
tournament he was pitching in. No one wanted
to call the competition off, so they played it out—
squalls and fly balls, runners trudging from their bases
as rain slashed in at an angle and wind
wheezed and huffed and whistled
across the muddy diamond.
Dad, I say, stupidly
bent on the truth, it seems like you’re conflating
two events for your own benefit. It sounds like what really happened
was you kept playing baseball rather than driving to meet your bride-
to-be.
He looks at me, his eyes a little sad, a little angry.
He’s ninety-one years old.
He doesn’t have to say anything if he doesn’t want to,
so he doesn’t.
My mother emerges from the bathroom,
moving slowly with her walker, out of breath.
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Midwest Review 