Bob Hancock

"In Memory of Bob Hancock"

I wonder who he was, why
a brick bares his name
in the yard of this library
by the foliage, young
and tender
white striped
and green

why

that the brick is slanted, sideways
instead of strait, why dandelions
and a walnut stump are within
inches of the memory of Bob Hancock

he may have been a husband
of one of the library ladies, inside wondering
what I am writing about, staring
at her memories
being recreated
in my mind

like when he built
their first house
and he was nailing
the rafters in place
and she brought him
a glass of homemade
lemonade up that old wooden
ladder with round steps, and she slipped
spilling the entire glass onto the ground
just as she raised her head over the wall

and he looked at her
with sweat pouring from his brow
and smiled and laughed. Then they
both smiled and laughed in the hot Kentucky sun

and how he drifted away, her holding his hand
him raising his head, and dropping it back to the pillow
her standing to her feet and smiling a warmth into his eyes

as he died


Will I become
a name engraved
on a brick, outside
the library, planted
next to foliage, twitching
with the passing frigid, spring air
just to the right of a weathered, wooden bench

yes . . . a fine place . . . for a memory.