from the smokes of long dead railroaders

 

sure her cat puked on the desk
my grandpa rescued from the train depot after the big fire in ‘36
sure she sold my rusted out MGB/GT
the one with the wire knock-off wheels
to an Okie while I was in rehab
and sure she spent the proceeds from that little swindle
on plane fare to Chicago to visit her mother
and sure I couldn’t get enough
of eyeballing that German/Mexican jalapeno ass
or the tamales she cooked in the big pot on my old Kenmore stove
but I wasn’t all that sorry
when she came to me on a snowy blustery evening
with big tears in her eyes and said
I’m going back to Billy
he got out of jail and he wants to have a baby
and you don’t want to have a baby
and you’re so drunk you can’t get it up most of the time
and I like you but I really want to have a baby
so I’m going back to Billy are you mad at me?

sure I wasn’t mad at her
sure I was relieved that I wouldn’t be cleaning any more cat puke
off the big slab of oak that I prized for its history and its connection
to my grandpa who began railroading
on the Kansas Southern in nineteen twenty-two
and who swallowed mustard gas in the war to end all war
and who kept a flask of “pain killer” out in his garage
along with his pea green 1950 Studebaker Champion  
but I might have been a little bit mad about those tamales
because I’d never eaten homemade tamales
and unless you’ve eaten homemade tamales
stuffed with pork and homemade masa
wrapped in fresh corn husks and steamed in their own juices
or sat at a big desk that’s scarred by burns from the smokes of long dead railroaders
and waited for another poem to show up
you can’t possibly understand what this poem means