Conversation Through a Windshield

A draft of a new poem:

Conversation Through a Windshield

The wind hurried
Through breaks of goldenrods,
Late for a dance with the cottonwoods,
Pushed by a storm stalking up the valley.

My friend, the towheaded farmer with over-sized hands,
The one with a crooked nose
And a forehead like an anvil,
Struck a serious gaze through my old truck's windshield
At the looming gunmetal clouds
And asked aloud, over cherry-red cheeks,
If God approved of cremation, and
"Do you think its gonna rain?

I said, "The ripening wheat fields down by the river
Dream of terrible hailstorms this time of year."
"Did Evan get that cutting of alfalfa baled this week?"

"Myra left me last night", he says.
"Gone to her sister's over in Pocatello."
"Kids are resilient," I say." They get back up
When they get blown over."

"I cleaned my pistol last night after she left."
I said, "Hey, let's hunt in Arbon Valley this year."
Then silence as the pickup droned up the blacktop.

Then, through the windshield he says
"I want my ashes scattered in the Teton River
If it's OK with God and you."
"That long riffle where we saw the double rainbow last year."


[Submitted to Subtropics literary journal on 1/6/2010]