The string of things I haven’t done could reach from here to every place I’ve never been: New York, Golden Corral, an orgy, Rome. They say that’s a bucket list. My great-grandfather worked his neighbors’ farms to keep his own, carrying the tin lunch pail that’s now on my shelf. Some days he probably swung it empty from dark to dark hoping someone could toss in day-old bread or a nickel. My guess is he would be awed by all we have. Or mad at what he didn’t. My dad griped that we barely had a pot to piss in, but barely does a lot there. We had a pot to piss in, I’m saying, even Pizza Hut on paydays, a quarter for Pac-Man if we were good and lucky. Ain’t no hole in the washtub, sang my mom, and she was right, though there was once a hole in the back room ceiling that filled the chili pot when it rained hard and long. So I’ve never been to Brazil but I’ve never gone hungry, always had bread, bologna, a coffee can full of grease way at the back of the fridge, second shelf. I think I’d like to finish my life with whatever it takes to endure it. Beyond that, I don’t know. The smell of his pillow. A dog. Maybe a vodka to close it out. Enough.
Jessica L. Walsh is the author of Book of Gods and Grudges (Glass Lyre, 2022) as well as two previous collections. Her poetry has appeared in Guesthouse, Lunch Ticket, Crab Creek Review, and more. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net, her work has also been featured on the Best American Poetry website. A native of small-town Michigan, she lives outside of Chicago and teaches at a community college.
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Was thinking on gratitude this morning. This poem furthers that, in such a wonderful way. Thank you. :)
Absolutely Yes, Jessica Walsh! I am meaning to get my hads on Gods and Grudges. Love the title.