In a late night bar near the motel, she listened
to him talk about the town and how things used
to be before the mine shut down; but she saw
also saw the fear in his eyes when he talked
about people’s benefits running out, and how
so many had packed up and left. I never did see
a moving truck, he said, it was like they just
She smiled and took a sip of her
drink to let him know she was listening, but
really she was thinking about the long drive
she had ahead of her in the morning.
When he told her of his plans to start his own
tree farm and get the old lumber mill back up
and running, she thought about her father’s
hands, and his initials that he carved into the
Willow Tree at Persimmon Creek, and promised
herself that when she got home, she would
carve her initials next to his.
For a while she even thought about turning back;
imagining that when she arrived at her apartment
her father would still be alive, and she would call him.
He sounded like he believed it when he said the town
would come out of the recession, and that once
people got back on their feet there would be plenty
of opportunities for those who stayed.
But it was only when her knee brushed against his,
and stayed there, that he could tell she wasn’t
listening–and it was something else she wanted.
How far away do you live? she said.
- Bison Jack
Her Two Cents
Bison Jack’s poetry, which has frequently appeared on the Savannah missed connections feed for over two years, tells stories of quiet desperation and hope. While the Bison Bar of Jim Nix’s photo illustration is in Ireland, and not Georgia, I’m sure it also has had its share of stories told and listened to.