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At Home


For my brother, who left this world too soon

I did not follow you to the fields
to plow the dark, cool soil
by night, after a day’s work for cash.
But I know how your boy-frame hunched
forward in the tractor seat to hug the wheel,
how moonlight fell across your bare back,
how the engine’s hum mesmerized you.
Farm boy, at home in the family fields.

I did not follow you on the open road
sailing into the heartland
to lush wheat ripe for harvest.
But I know you drove fast with windows down,
wind rushing against your face, plains sweeping
toward Litchfield, Des Moines, Moline,
big farm territory, wide-open sky.
John Deere boy, at home in the vast Midwest.

I did not follow you to West Tennessee
as you greeted coffee-guzzling farmers
mornings in the café, raising a flat palm.
But I know the ring of your Hel-lo-o-o!
as sunburned faces crinkled - chewing tobacco
or smoking expensive cigars - men calling out,
Hey Dave! Y’all got a 9550 combine?
John Deere man, at home on the flatlands.

I did not follow you on your last dark journey,
But I know you squared your shoulders against
the lonely terrain, and I like to think
that a brilliant light caught the blue of your eyes
as you came into kinder country and strained to
glimpse a familiar face, and when you did -
A sweeping wave, a big Hel-lo-o-o! -
You were at home.

pgallaher@copyright 2019

www.phyllisgobbell.com

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