Clutch died. Mountain
road. Mud
to my ankles.
Lost a shoe. Pelting
rain. Glow of a window
through pines.
Moss on the roof.
Old woman: a cotton bandage,
stained gray,
covers one eye.
Holes in her smile.
Please could I use your --
"Come in," she says
to my surprise.
I take off my one shoe, two socks.
She brings a towel.
Smell of mildew and kerosene.
Her shack is unwired, unplumbed, off
the grid but connected
by Bible. Cracks in the wall
stuffed with pink rags.
Wood stove: a pot, steaming.
Lantern, gleaming.
"Sit down. Eat."
I talk. She nods her head, humming,
never again speaking
as I begin to believe
she is half-crazy
though someone
watches over her.
When help arrives
I set off
in the wind
warmed by her few
words of love.
3/30/84
© Copyright 1984 and 1999 by Joe CottonwoodNext: Soccer Field