Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Sydney Lea
Authority
The times were good for him back thirty years,
he must have thought he’d risen above us all,
But they went more than well for us as well.
Chick’s in those times was Topsfield’s only store
and pumped the only gas for miles. The trucks
filled up the lot like milling pachyderms.
Back then of course we thought in different terms:
we never dreamed, say, Chick would have that stroke.
The pumps — all gone. Across the road the Mobil-
Mart shows antispetic, moony-white.
The traitor loggers lunch there day and night,
gaze through breath-gauzed glass, and watch Chick’s crumble.
A river drew us friends together: trout,
in water clear as air. The trout have vanished,
along with some of us. Chick had a flourish
whenever he’d greet our gang. All grins and shouts.
He forgets who we are or else he doesn’t care —
just aging guys from a state away, who come
for a bag of chips, for a rusted tin of ham,
for old times’ sake. We wander through the store,
buying whatever we can, which isn’t much.
Chick’s locked in study, cards on the table, locked
in silence too, who above all things would talk
our very ears off when we stopped for lunch.
For tasty lunch: the poachers’ moose were thick:
he could make himself a killing on steaks and burgers.
He’d wave his flipper and rant on local matters
(though he never let the meat get overcooked):
taxes, timber, a sure-fire fishing hole.
His face would shine with pure authority,
a different thing from this solemnity.
He’d hoot, opine, opine again, and smile.
Everything tends toward wisdom. Chick’s dumb version
looks as grim as ever grim could be.
Friends at his table, he in better days,
the fish, the food: was all of that mere vision?
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