May 4, 1970

 

May 4, 1970

All our earthly tie-dye rags plus
a mason jar of muddy Mississippi water
because we’ll never see that river again—
you, me, one dog crammed into a Volkswagen
aimed at Vancouver, Canada for permanent exile—
when we hear the news on crackly AM radio:
Kent State. Four dead.

A truck stop, Little America.
As we walk in, we see jaws clench.
Tough crowd. Could be my T-shirt—
    STAY HEALTHY
    AVOID DRAFTS
Waitress—cowgirl boots, red white and blue
sash on her neck—pours us coffee, two cups.
“I’m so sorry,” she says and glares
at a trucker who is flipping us off.
You add cream, and it curdles. Spoiled.
Waitress without asking dumps your cup,
brings another and fresh cream.
“My bad,” she says. “Shit. Ohio.
I’m so upset. Sorry.”

Just that, fresh cream. A little warmth
from a waitress who is doing her job.
You touch my hand. “We can’t go,” you say.

Future can change so fast. Ours,
steering east, Saint Lou, re-dipping our toes
along the cobblestone levee among
seagulls and cigarette butts as we pour
the mason jar back home.  

Four dead. We stay.
In kindness, we work for them.
And that waitress.

Note: On May 4, l970 the Ohio National Guard fired into a crowd of Kent State University anti-war demonstrators, killing four and wounding nine students.

…..

First published in Moss Piglet. Thank you editor John Bloner