Joe

 

Joe and Uncle Jesse

              I quit, he said,
              just quit.
              Happen you find
              enough air
              left in the tires
              of that old ‘81 Plymouth,
              have her!
              But I’m through. 

              What else he said                       
              I’m damned
              if I remember;
              he just stepped 
              off the store porch,

              walked a half-mile
              down the road
              to Haverstraw’s,
              beat the whole field
              at shuffleboard,
              and lay down and died.
              In style, by God.
 

ξ

 

Joe and the Water Main

              Goddamnedest piece
              of ingenuity I’ve
              ever seen, Joe said,
              nodding. 

              But, Joe, everyone
              said, she’s raw
              concrete hardened.

              Can’t question you
             there, man,
              said Joe, 

              but have you seen
              the way that L 
              comes out of that
              T.

              But, Joe, you
              couldn't chip her
              with a pickaxe.

              No, man, no,
             but ain’t that
              the beauty,

              take off the collar,
              you got the 
              slickest
              threads ever machined,

              what a line of joinery!
             That, baby, wasn't
             made for 
             no ordinary me.

 

ξ

                        

Joe and the Delivery Man

              Backed up to the door and let off.
              I said, What am I supposed
              to do with this?
              How do I know, the driver said,
              all I’m told to do is deliver.
              Then, what is it?
              Don’t know that neither,
              but I’d get it inside before it rains.
              Well, who sent it?
              Guy named Smith, that’s all I know.
              Where’d it come from?
              What’s all these twenty questions, man,
              my foot’s in the door, ass’s in the seat.
              Am I expected to pay for it?
              That’s your problem,
              my guess is by check.
              Made out to who?
              To whoever. Who you buy it from?
              I can’t go through that again.
              Then sign by the X on the line,
              make my job easy one time.
              You asked, and I’m telling:
              that’s how I got the goddamned thing.

 

  

ξ

 

Trent Busch, native of rural West Virginia, lives in Georgia where he makes furniture. He has published in Best American Poetry, Poetry, Nation, Threepenny Review, North American Review, Kenyon Review, and The American Scholar. His recent books of poetry, not one bit of this is your fault, (2019) and Plumb Level and Square (2020) were published by Cyberwit.net.