he ought to go to night school,
so if the farm failed
there’d be prospects to fall back on.
He’s starting to sound like Ma.
“The farm won’t fail,” I tell him.
“Long as we get some good rain.”
I’m starting to sound like him.
“It’s mostly ladies in those classes,” he says,
“they take bookkeeping and civics,
and something called business English.”
I can’t imagine him
taking any of those things.
But maybe he doesn’t care so much about the classes.
Maybe he’s thinking more about the company of
ladies.
I’ll bet none of the ladies mind
spending time with my father,
he’s still good looking
with his strong back,
and his blondy-red hair
and his high cheeks rugged with wind.
It’s dinner I don’t have to
come up with,
’cause the ladies bring chicken and biscuits for him.
I’m glad to get out of cooking.
Sometimes with my hands,
it’s hard to keep the fire,
wash the pans,
hold the knife, and spread a little butter.
But I do mind his spending time with all those
biddies.
I turn my back on him as he goes,
and settle myself in the parlor
and touch Ma’s piano.
My fingers leave sighs
in the dust.
March 1935