Winesburg
I am walking along a back fence/not a concession line but the place/where corn meets dirt road
(Winesburg, Ohio map. Photo courtesy of Americanliterature.com)
Winesburg
I am walking along a back fence
not a concession line but the place
where corn meets wagon road
The band is playing beneath
the buckeyes and clouds lie close
there is much to approve of
And so much to chance.
I am walking without a coin
to spend because the train
comes for an exact fare
And too timid am I to ride
the rails. Locomotives recommend
dining with silver on linen
But corn tassels beneath my nails
and the smell of dry hay in my clothes
carry a charm of its own
So I've nothing to spend.
The ball team will play at one
and I won't be here to see who wins
will my absence be noted among
Men who place wagers on bare
handed fielders and pitchers that
tipple (they do love their sauce)
I can't tell if the hotelier took
a lasting interest in things I said
he was polite as was his pale wife
They had a son who asked how long
I'd tried to write. He was as wistful
as me a boy with fretful hands
Always fussing with his hair.
Winesburg you leave me
with impressions. You leave
me with visions of shag hickory
Bark and falling gold the smoke
of your wood and the sound of an ax
athwack. Everyone uses their hands
Here save me. For a pen and paper
fall in my lap like manna. Like tiny
Ohio towns.
-Jeremy Nathan Marks