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iowa
by Gabriel RicardHer TV is older than her loyal, ailing grandfather,
and until the morning she took the train,
to Ontario’s version of the famous small town in Iowa
that lives the last minute before tomorrow forever,
that TV never worked a day in its life.
Her boyfriend,
nice kid for a while there,
his death later on was a miracle to some,
needed her grandfather to help move it
up seventy-four flights of stairs.
The elevator had a mind of its own,
and that mind had a mean streak and a strong dislike for the living.
Rain from fifty miles away once snapped its cables in two.
It was a temperamental apartment,
and something always went terribly wrong for her
when she had friends over for coffee and confession.
If it had been possible,
she would have kept her boyfriend’s apologies
preserved in a see-through piggy bank for all eternity.
She would have collected more
than complimentary breakfasts from all those married men.
Her mother was a teacher for forty years.
Retirement was locking herself inside a school bus,
loading six bullets into the handheld game show
and daring anyone with an eye for detail to come and get her.
She didn’t talk about her mother,
and she never let her father forget
that he ran away at thirty-six to take photographs
of beautiful trees blocking beautiful views.
That’s why her love-affair with the black willow
outside the cold living room’s window
was considered a little obsessive,
by friends known for getting scared
and dialing 916 after four cups of Earl Grey.
She was cruel, but quiet,
but she had a sinner’s temper for anyone
who complained about not being able to see
the daily classic car show coming through.
The boyfriend was always in the basement laundry room.
Making friends, getting high on opiates and lemonade.
The grandfather usually had to calm her down.
He was there all the time,
but he wasn’t homeless,
and he wasn’t keeping a lonely heart in the ashtray of his truck.
He was the most unselfish man in town,
and this is a pretty big town we’re talking about.
She might have noticed. Hard to say,
if she really was going to adopt a stray dog,
come home and finally finish
her teaching degree.
You never know when you’re going to break both hands
on a simple left turn,
and decide you’ve had all you can take.
It doesn’t have to be a ton of bricks.
It can be a surprise, unpleasant or otherwise,
in the middle of running Wednesday’s errands.
The TV is large enough,
ugly enough to live on as a dining room table.
01/17/2012 Posted on 01/17/2012
Copyright © 2025 Gabriel Ricard
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 01/19/12 at 01:38 PM Down the rabbit hole we go with another Ricard poem chock-full of rich imagery, so rich the reader is warned to check his blood sugar after consuming. Too many to quote here. I just enjoyed the whole ride! |
| Posted by Meghan Helmich on 01/19/12 at 04:42 PM I want much more of this...I want chapters and risky dialogue and vicious hand-to-hand romance. Wonderful write. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 01/19/12 at 08:25 PM Did you grow up sitting around nightly fires tellng all the other kids these stories. If so I grew up in the wrong part of the country. Again and again you come up with them. Nice write Gabe. |
| Posted by LK Barrett on 01/20/12 at 01:40 PM ...sometimes we don't know until the whole parade has moved past how much we really had up in the air...and sometimes we still don't know. Love these little lives, the tenderly pointed dissection of your verse. Always wanting more, LK |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/28/12 at 12:54 PM I echo, George. You should be required reading in and around campfires, which require no fuel other than your words to ignite. |
| Posted by H.M Stevens on 01/30/12 at 04:55 AM Through the hum drum though so much stirs inside. Brilliant story telling, imagery and consistency. I love the role of the television. |
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