April 6, 2018
Photo by Jane Paradise
A Poem by Jack Wesdorp
Easter morning, April Fool’s Day.
This old guy in a John Deere cap
parks at the pump, I heard him say,
“Fill’er up, son, my rattletrap
needs to get fed, and so do I.
Can I buy some breakfast inside?”
Eggs benedict and pecan pie,
while he ate, mom looked on in pride.
When the time came to pay he dropped
a pile of ancient shekel clink
on the formica counter top,
a glittering clatter of blink.
“Stop,” my mom whispered, “that’s enough.”
That pile got a paid-off mortgage
and ten years’ worth of kitchen stuff.
He walked back to his battered Ford,
I thought then he’s a spooky one,
“Needs a paint job, it’s yours,” he said.
When I looked again he was gone.
We know for sure that he ain’t dead.