Ornery cuss

He worked hard, drank beer

fought a lot when he was young;

loved his wife, loved his kids;

never saw a dog he didn’t like.

He drove a pale blue Chevy pickup

windows down, his name neatly stenciled

under his elbow on the driver’s door; it said,

Albert W. Graul, Jr.

Mascoutah, Illinois

He liked a little ground, a pond to fish in,

overgrown fence rows to hunt rabbits in the fall;

Guinea hens, chickens, horses and cow.

His wife thought pigs smelled too much,

So he bought his pork at the IGA.

He once had a doberman pincer

it would lay its head

on the dinner table near his plate,

waited quietly for handouts,

but if he raised his hand to his kids

he’d have to put it outside or lose an arm.

When I was young, he had a golden shepherd mix

followed him around the farm,

sat on the back porch when he went inside.

It would chase his truck down the lane

to the highway when he went to town.

He feared it may get hit on the road

so he bought a long piece of rope at the farm co-op.

Tied it in the barn next time he left for town.

It jump out the hay loft window, broke its neck and died.

He buried its golden body behind the barn;

swore he’d never chain or tie a rope to another dog.

He moved to Arkansas when the kids got older.

Blamed it on upstate Democrats who ruined life

along bottom ground that sometimes flooded in the spring.

Mom said he moved because he burned too many bridges

and got too old to fight; dad said he was just an ornery cuss

who had an argument with the world.

He died a few years back, tethered to an operating table;

a simple heart procedure meant to save his life, ended it.

I think this social distancing thing would have suited him just fine,

if he’d give it a chance and quit complaining about

someone trying to tell him what to do.

He could stay on his land and the damn big city folks

would keep a safe distance and leave him the hell alone.

3-31-20

(for Uncle Junior)