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(with a short last line)

by Terry Everett

Things Mother does not know
(there's very little she
does not know), Uncle Bob
knows, as the Doc knew,
but never told. They told
each other when Uncle Bob
cut the Doc's hair whenever
they knew it was time. God knows
how they knew; it probably
was by the Moon somehow,
for that's how they planted,
and the mumbo-jumbo
we heard never made sense
to us (we know now, Chris
and I and maybe John
Owen) that probably
was Native American,
but mixed with notions
only aristocrats
could have, for they knew
how to breed and take care
of thoroughbreds and were/
are thoroughbreds, excellent
at whatever they turned/turn
their hands to. So, Uncle Bob
would buy things for little cash,
things only he knew
the value of. And they
accumulated behind
his house inside the fence,
inside the shed where he
cut the Doc's hair, and they
talked about the value
of things in language
beyond our ken, but not
beyond our fascination
as we sat rapt/wrapped, but lost
in the fog of words whirling
around our dizzy heads,
and so we warn you now,
St. Peter; he's on his way
to see you and probably
make you a deal good for you,
but, as they would say, "gooder"

for him.

With broken heart and all my love, Terry

About Terry Everett

Everett's poetry has appeared in TAPESTRY (DSU Division of Languages and Literature art-literary magazine) and numerous magazines and journals. He is Assistant Professor of English Emeritus from DSU where he taught courses in composition and literature.

Click here to read another of Terry Everett's beautiful poems, "In April Somewhere in the South."
And here is another: "A Stand of Trees."


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