Sunday, December 4, 2011

On the Fringe of the City


I used to see this man;
grey haired,
slightly grizzled
a healthy stature,
like an aged tree with a sturdy stump,
and frail branches falling around itself.

I’d always see him sitting on his steps.
His blue house stood tall,
proud,
holding the man with comfort,
as if the house knew what the man did for it.
As if the man knew what the house did for him.
As if they could feel each other’s appreciation.

You could tell they had always been together.
His porch was barren.
No place to sit but a step.
But the urge for the porch to sag
was always overcome with the weight of the man
and his love.
Sitting in the center step.
Neither of them showed it,
But they were smiling.

He secretly admired the autumn birds
peppering the skyline.
But when they came to rest on the roof
of his blue house
he would try to shout.
Frustrated his words
fell from his mouth like pouring slag;
deep with grit and dropping too soon,
he always ended up with a broomstick,
and rapped it against the pillars
until the house shook them free.

At night the windows would remain unlit.
Without window coverings
everyone could see
the porch had to be
his favorite place to sit.

I stayed in the car
too embarrassed to join my mom
on the day she felt overwhelmed with courageous goodwill,
to approach the old man
sitting on the steps of his blue house on the fringe of the city.
We pulled in.
The slam of her door seemed violent,
and I could see him raise his head
as she approached his porch holding a small fern.
She was overly excited,
and spoke too soon
as she delivered a warm HELLO
coming out with a nervous shiver
not making eye contact
as her confidence withered.
His curling grey brow
furrowed to disguise
the fear in his old hazy eyes.

I stayed bundled up in the old, cream mini-van.
I saw him raise his hand,
preparing to grab his broomstick
to tell the house to shake my mom from itself,
and I could feel my heart pound faster,
knowing how the house could shake off thousands of birds.
What could it do to 1 woman?

She kept smiling.
Persisting to give the man a gift.
And in a muffled tirade
I could tell
he needed nothing more than his middle step.
I could tell there just wasn’t time
for the plant to earn his respect,
and my mom returned to the car with the fern.
Her pride injured.
Still concerned.

The man hasn’t been seen on his porch for years.
Yet I water his plant,
waiting for the blue house to call upon it
so I can place it on the center step.
Only after I clearly see
the plant has earned it’s respect.


Jordan R. Shaver 

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