Not the Best Combination
Some people call it Missouri,
like Mi ZUR ee
Others call it Missourah
like Mi ZER rah
But when you combine the two
It sounds like Misery.
Missouri is Flat
A humble landscape
With no hill or mountain
Reaching ambitiously skyward
Instead it reposes
And waits
For the sky to come to it
Soon enough obese clouds
Drag and scrape
Themselves across the prairie
Sometimes a tornado
Will try its best
To drill a canyon in her soft flesh
It is a miracle that Missouri is still flat
Happy New Years
On the morning of the second day of the second decade of the second millennium, my sister and I found a homeless man at the park across the street from our house. We were collecting twigs and pinecones for kindling, accompanied by a creaking granny cart and the ghosts of our breath. In Missouri’s grey winter Beanie’s red shawl and my plum colored coat provided the only colors to be seen for miles.
Beanie dragged the creaking cart behind us as we diligently scanned the tawny sea of dead grass for our bounty. There was hardly anyone else at the park, though sometimes we were visited by rays of sunlight that broke through the clouds.
I had just finished breaking a dry fallen branch into more sizeable twigs when I noticed that the cart was silent. Beanie—in the red shawl, cowboy boots and a second hand faux fur coat purchased for six dollars—had stopped, stood erect, and was pointing. There is a small wading pool at the far end of the park, operated by Parks and Recreation. In the summer it is filled with water and toddlers. On this winter day it was filled with sunlight, dried leaves, and was now the site of a homeless man’s slumber. The twigs became a non-entity. I had lived across the street from that park until I was nineteen, and had never seen a homeless person there before.
The night before was twenty-two degrees below freezing. As he was wearing only jeans and a hoodie we were certain that this wading pool was his final resting place. It appeared he lad left this world the same way he entered: curled up in fetal position. Beanie stayed behind me as I crept up to him to see if we truly had to report a dead body.
But his chest rose and fell underneath the thin hoodie and eyebrows fidgeted on a slightly wrinkled forehead. Shy strands of thinning hair ventured out from beneath the hood and twitched in the cold. We went across the street back to our house, followed by our breath and the cart.
A fleece blanket (given to us when we adopted two cats from the animal shelter two days after Christmas); the contents of a can of clam chowder from 2008 (that we heated to an edible consistency); a peanut butter sandwich on homemade Irish soda bread; trail mix, pita chips, a white plastic spoon and a bright orange hat that I got when I canvassed for Howard Dean at the Iowa caucuses of 2004 (Howard Dean Iowa Storm it said in humble-sized letters)—all memories of the previous decade—went into a large brown paper bag. We crept across the street and put the bag a foot away from the still sleeping man and silently stalked away.
An hour later mom, who happened to be looking out the window, reported that the man was awake. Beanie and I joined her at the window to witness. The man’s shoulders were now covered by the fleece blanket as he hunched over the canned soup. He had also placed the Howard Dean hat on his head. And now the only color to be seen for miles was bright orange.
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