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| iHeart podcast |
Before we finish steaming bowls of homemade
chicken soup at our favorite cafe on Washington Ave,
talk shifts from the dilemma with his wife’s family
and the chaos and uncertainty of the next election
to where we were sixty years ago today.
He was in a fourth grade class in Memphis
when the principal released them,
no explanation he can recall.
On the ride home the driver had a transistor radio on.
She slowed to a stop, turned to the students,
eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed,
told them what had happened
in Dallas earlier that day.
When he got home the house was quiet.
He can’t recall if his parents ever talked of JFK.
I was on a Greyhound east of Chicago
on a cold rainy ride through open countryside
when a lady a few rows back turned her radio
up high. We all heard the news.
Two bluesmen began singing “Jesus is Coming Soon,”
one strummed a battered old Gibson out of tune.
A bottle of Southern Comfort made its way up the aisle.
I took a long pull, slipped it to the lady beside me.
She never looked up, downed a gulp
and passed it along. The driver pulled to the side
of the road. We stood together, a light rain falling—
I never imagined what the future could hold.
chicken soup at our favorite cafe on Washington Ave,
talk shifts from the dilemma with his wife’s family
and the chaos and uncertainty of the next election
to where we were sixty years ago today.
He was in a fourth grade class in Memphis
when the principal released them,
no explanation he can recall.
On the ride home the driver had a transistor radio on.
She slowed to a stop, turned to the students,
eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed,
told them what had happened
in Dallas earlier that day.
When he got home the house was quiet.
He can’t recall if his parents ever talked of JFK.
I was on a Greyhound east of Chicago
on a cold rainy ride through open countryside
when a lady a few rows back turned her radio
up high. We all heard the news.
Two bluesmen began singing “Jesus is Coming Soon,”
one strummed a battered old Gibson out of tune.
A bottle of Southern Comfort made its way up the aisle.
I took a long pull, slipped it to the lady beside me.
She never looked up, downed a gulp
and passed it along. The driver pulled to the side
of the road. We stood together, a light rain falling—
I never imagined what the future could hold.
Marc Swan lives in coastal Maine. Poems recently published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Nerve Cowboy Anthology, Misfit, Sheila-na-gig, among others. His fifth collection, all it would take, was published in 2020 by tall-lighthouse (UK).
