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a poem by Frank Sloan
Kansas Southern
Sure her cat puked
On the desk my grandpa
Rescued from the train depot
After the big fire in '36
And of course she sold
My MGB/GT, the one
With the wire knock-off
wheels to an Okie
While I was in Wichita
On a dope investigation
And sure she spent the proceeds
From that little swindle
On plane fare to Chicago
To "visit her mother"
And sure I couldn't get enough
Of that German/Mexican jalapeño
Ass or the tamales
In the big pot on my
Worn out Kenmore stove
But I wasn't all that sorry
When she came to me
On a snowy blustery evening
With big tears in her eyes
And said I'm going back to
Billy he got out of jail and
He wants to have a baby and
You don't want to have a
Baby and you are a cop
And I like you but that makes
Me nervous and I really want to
Have a baby and so I'm going
Back to Billy are you mad at me
Sure I wasn't mad at her
Sure I was relieved that
I wouldn't be cleaning any
More cat puke off the big
Slab of oak that I prized
For its history and its connection
To my grandpa who began railroading
On the Kansas Southern
In Nineteen Thirteen and
Swallowed mustard gas
In the war to end all war
And who kept a flask
Of "pain killer" out in the
Garage along with his
Pea-green 1950 Studebaker
Champion
Sure I was calm
For the most part
But I might have been a little
Bit mad about those tamales
Because I'd never eaten
Homemade tamales
And unless you have eaten
Homemade tamales
Stuffed with pork and
homemade masa, wrapped
In fresh corn husks and
Steamed in the their own
Juices you can't possibly
understand what this
poem means to me or what
it means to sit at a big desk
scarred by dozens of railroaders
cigarette burns and gleaming
with brass fixtures hand-cleaned
by my grandfather after the big
fire in Nineteen hundred and thirty-six
while fat gray clouds roil above the
shelter belt of pine trees that shields
me from a very troubled world.
On the desk my grandpa
Rescued from the train depot
After the big fire in '36
And of course she sold
My MGB/GT, the one
With the wire knock-off
wheels to an Okie
While I was in Wichita
On a dope investigation
And sure she spent the proceeds
From that little swindle
On plane fare to Chicago
To "visit her mother"
And sure I couldn't get enough
Of that German/Mexican jalapeño
Ass or the tamales
In the big pot on my
Worn out Kenmore stove
But I wasn't all that sorry
When she came to me
On a snowy blustery evening
With big tears in her eyes
And said I'm going back to
Billy he got out of jail and
He wants to have a baby and
You don't want to have a
Baby and you are a cop
And I like you but that makes
Me nervous and I really want to
Have a baby and so I'm going
Back to Billy are you mad at me
Sure I wasn't mad at her
Sure I was relieved that
I wouldn't be cleaning any
More cat puke off the big
Slab of oak that I prized
For its history and its connection
To my grandpa who began railroading
On the Kansas Southern
In Nineteen Thirteen and
Swallowed mustard gas
In the war to end all war
And who kept a flask
Of "pain killer" out in the
Garage along with his
Pea-green 1950 Studebaker
Champion
Sure I was calm
For the most part
But I might have been a little
Bit mad about those tamales
Because I'd never eaten
Homemade tamales
And unless you have eaten
Homemade tamales
Stuffed with pork and
homemade masa, wrapped
In fresh corn husks and
Steamed in the their own
Juices you can't possibly
understand what this
poem means to me or what
it means to sit at a big desk
scarred by dozens of railroaders
cigarette burns and gleaming
with brass fixtures hand-cleaned
by my grandfather after the big
fire in Nineteen hundred and thirty-six
while fat gray clouds roil above the
shelter belt of pine trees that shields
me from a very troubled world.
© by Frank Sloan
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011
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