Gloaming, Albertson Road
Logan Meets Al
It’s my friend, Logan, back from California
midwinter. Out of gas outside of Marsing
Where Al is working for the man, Mr. Ankeny,
Who promised him the house where he is domiciled,
Or so Al would tell me.
Not that Al’s version of events is the absolute truth,
Or that he’s obligated to twist himself into a pretzel —
All his life Al had worked his hands to the bone,
Yes, he worked with his hands all his life,
All his life, except when they made him foreman
At the seed plant. He was always a foreman in the winter
When he couldn’t farm, an irrepressible cheer about him,
A quick wit cutting like a knife, and good English
Though he had been brought up in South Texas
By the Rio Grande, his coming north, running away
When he was sixteen.
So Al drove by in the big Ramcharger,
A beer hidden between his knees,
Stopping abruptly where Logan is cupping
His hands against the cold
Standing next to his stalled car.
_____________
Zeke Sanchez