UNCLE BOB'S EMPIRE (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 |
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.
And here is another: "A Stand of Trees."
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