Jake's Flea Market

i never thought as i carried her over the threshold
that the october wind would blow
this cold and this continuous through the wall

from around the window frame in the wall
it blows down on where the child’ll sleep

blows the pilot light in the gas
furnace out and this with cold coming

back in august
we’d planned to put a crib in that second room

i laid a light coloured
carpet down against a somber tone in there and now

the child’ld catch a chill
under the warmth i painted across the ceiling in white

and through the cheerful air i painted on the walls in yellow
he’d catch his death by cold

abby’ll bring the baby home
put him to bed on a rug where the lino 
is worn through to the bare floor wood

i’m afraid she’ll speak how we live
into the child’s name   the name 
by which we must call him

we must call him solomon
the lioness expects it

ah the lioness

without her the rain on their barn
roof would drip ploink     ploink     ploink in the liquid
manure on the barn floor   the horse in the barn
would wade plash     plash     plash through shit to the fetlocks
to the knee knobs and yet

not even she can stop the corral collapse   the decay 
of old posts into the dry dead grass   the fence planks 
fallen     half sunk     rotting unseen beneath the thistles 
and the seed full headed weeds grown
up through the ten years dried   steer dung soil

it was she who plowed the furrows in the field
and as she filled those furrows with seed
his highness gambled the acres out from under the machinery wheels
gambled the machinery right out from under her ass and the bank
raked in the pot
raked in the harvest
raked our inheritance into their record profits  
tell me abby won’t speak that   into the sound of the child’s name

yet we must call him solomon

the lioness reminds me this 
is how first sons have come to their waiting names
since the fathers of this clan first answered to a sound

abby asks why i answer the ten oclock
questions at rex’s café   yeah
he sold that land   sold the machinery   he’s retired now y’know

bought that pickup new and all he does
is drive the old lady to the city to do errands
pick up groceries at the i g a
feed at the mill so she can feed
the chickens in the coop and the cow and the horse
while he goes in and reads the t s e

he picks up jorgy every night at eight oclock

ha
jorgy asks   where’d the pauper get the chariot
says it dresses him up to a prince

ha
the way he sits behind that steering wheel   nah
a crown would humble him   royal robes diminish him

jorgy says they drive out to tiny’s place to lose
at poker every night ‘til well past midnight

but now he can drive the lioness to church on sunday

and i don’t have to use our old truck and time i don’t have
i don’t have time to haul the loads of potatoes she digs
up from her garden to the farmers’ market so his highness
will have what he calls pocket cash

abby says he’s a parasite

i’m afraid she’ll look
for the old man in the child ‘til she finds him
then speak her contempt so it seeps
into each syllable of the child’s name

yet we must call him solomon

the lioness says we have a duty
to name the child to remember the old man

abby says they should sell 
what little farm house   what little farm remains 

rent an apartment in the city where his highness
will still demand his daily twenty and the lioness
without her plot of garden’ll go scavenge in the streets no

no

no i will not be ashamed to see her in a dirty tweed
overcoat stained with trash   a madwoman
pushing a shopping cart   digging in bins
for empty bottles and poptin cans no

and yet my wife wears second hand
hand me down   charity   sally ann
kneels on her knees on the floor
clips coupons from newspapers
studies every flyer through the door
to save a few pennies on this
a dollar there and yet

when she cooks   she rations food
i see how the cupboards are somewhat bare and yet

i try to comfort myself
i tell myself i get the rent paid 
the gas   the city   the power
i get the payments on that pickup made and yet

i’m a hair’s breadth in height i cannot say
here abby go buy the groceries we need 
go buy yourself something new   something nice

oh i’d go to the bank
take out a thousand dollar loan
i’d get it with no questions asked
but how do i borrow what i can’t pay back

she must have thought my life was the promised land
eden on earth   that’s why she came in

she must have thought it was june where i stood
the grass greenest as it was on the chapel lawn

she must have thought buds burst into green
leaves and there’d be apples
hanging from branches that were bare in april

she must have thought short shoots
broke ground and the crop
that came green would go gold at harvest time

she must have thought it was summer where i stood
as she strolled up the aisle on her father’s arm
her long train trailing along the floor and ah

i stared
how i was hers
into her eyes
when i lifted her veil
at the altar i stared
a promise into her eyes
that i’d always be
here for her and now

the promise breaks

i become an absence

and she becomes bride to the bleakest days of winter
that’ll howl around the house and her
alone with the baby 

if she needs something
she can’t call me from deboer’s barn at milking time

nor from the narrow lanes between pens
when i feed hay

nor from the corrals when i clean the manure
out and spread fresh straw

oh i’ll come home
in the hour i’m given for lunch and again
in the hour i’m given for the evening meal but
how much can i do
how much can i do when i must leave again and again
she can’t call me from deboer’s barn at milking time
if she needs anything at all

i’ll be an amsterdam weather forecast
from a year and a half ago   i’ll be an ancient ad
a coupon from a bankrupt store   i’ll be of such little use
when i come home late every night i’m afraid
i’ll be of no use at all

i should learn how disappointment looks
from her eyes   her mouth should teach me
the sound of reproach but no
she’ll never raise her voice

she’ll be afraid that i’ll rage back
that the conversation that warms on a low flame
will boil violently over and yet

i tell her i don’t hurl dishes across rooms
nor throw punches through walls i promise her
i’ll never put blue bruises on her face
nor fill her body with broken bones no

no
 
no that’s not it

she’ll be afraid every day that i won’t come home
so she’ll speak her disappointment
all into a single word and that
the word the child’ll answer to

and yet we must call him solomon

the lioness insists
we owe the old man that gesture of respect
of honour

abby’ll bring the baby home

come sunday   his highness’ll bring the lioness to dinner

abby’ll do her best not to show it
but i’ll hear the irritation in her voice
warm on a low flame when the old lady
tells her to take the baby from the dining room

his highness’ll want silence
once he’s taken his place in the armchair
at the head of the table like it’s a royal throne

abby’ll say nothing about it
nothing to ripple how placid we seem to be

and by the time she calls the child   who’ll become of the baby
by the time she calls him from where he plays
in his room with his toys

she’ll still do her best not to show it
but i’m afraid i’ll hear the growing anger in her voice
simmer on a medium flame when the old man
won’t let the child she called to dinner
come to the table   won’t even let me spear
a piece of carrot out of the soup pot to cool   ‘til the lioness
has filled his bowl with the lion’s share

abby’ll do nothing about it
nothing to start the ripple that starts the wrecking wave 

and by the time she calls the boy who’ll become of the child
by the time she calls him from where he plays
outdoors with a neighborhood friend at six oclock

she herself won’t hear it
but i expect to hear the daily   day long fury in her voice
burn on a high flame when everything we’d hoped
and everything we’d dreamed on our honeymoon lies collapsed
crushed beneath the life that’ll consummate our marriage ah

i expect to hear her voice
sear the child’s name   char it black when she calls

SOLOMON
out the back door into the alley

SOLOMON
out the front door into the street

SOLOMON DAMN YOU

oh solomon my son   
my son