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1935

The Piano Player
    Arley says,
    “We’re
    doing a show at the school in a week, Billie Jo.
    Come play with us.”
    If I asked my father
    he’d say yes.
    It’s okay with him if I want to play.
    He didn’t even know I was at the piano again till the
    other night.
    He’s making some kind of effort to get on
    better with me now,
    Since I “did him proud” at the Palace.
    But I say, “No.”
    It’s too soon after the contest.
    It still hurts too much.
    Arley doesn’t understand.
    “Just practice more,” he says.
    “You’ll get it back,
    you can travel with us again this summer
    if you’d like.”
    I don’t say
    it hurts like the parched earth with each note.
    I don’t say,
    one chord and
    my hands scream with pain for days.
    I don’t show him
    the swelling
    or my tears.
    I tell him, “I’ll try.”
    At home, I sit at
    Ma’s piano,
    I don’t touch the keys.
    I don’t know why.
    I play “Stormy Weather” in my mind,
    following the phrases in my imagination,
    saving strength,
    so that when I sit down at a piano that is not Ma’s,
    when everyone crowds into the school
    for Arley’s show,
    no one can say
    that Billie Jo Kelby plays like a cripple.
    March 1935

No Good
    I did play like a cripple at Arley’s show,
    not that Arley would ever say it.
    But my hands are no good anymore,
    my playing’s no good.
    Arley understands, I think.
He won’t ask again.
    March 1935

Snow
    Had to check
    yesterday morning
    to make sure that was
    snow
    on the ground,
    not dust.
    But you can’t make a dustball
    pack together
    and slam against the side of the barn, and
    echo across the fields.
    So I know it was snow.
    March 1935

Night School
    My father thought maybe
    he ought to go to night school,
    so if the farm failed
    there’d be prospects to fall back on.
    He’s starting to sound like Ma.
    “The farm won’t fail,” I tell him.
    “Long as we get some good rain.”
    I’m starting to sound like him.
    “It’s mostly ladies in those classes,” he says,
    “they take bookkeeping and civics,
    and something called business English.”
    I can’t imagine him
    taking any of those things.
    But maybe he doesn’t care so much about the classes.
    Maybe he’s thinking more about the company of
    ladies.
    I’ll bet none of the ladies mind
    spending time with my father,
    he’s still good looking
    with his strong back,
    and his blondy-red hair
    and his high cheeks rugged with wind.
    I shouldn’t mind either.
    It’s dinner I don’t have to
    come up with,
    ’cause the ladies bring chicken and biscuits for him.
    I’m glad to get out of cooking.
    Sometimes with my hands,
    it’s hard to keep the fire,
    wash the pans,
    hold the knife, and spread a little butter.
    But I do mind his spending time with all those
    biddies.
    I turn my back on him as he goes,
    and settle myself in the parlor
    and touch Ma’s piano.
    My fingers leave sighs
in the dust.
    March 1935

Dust Pneumonia
    Two Fridays ago,
    Pete Guymon drove in with a
    truck full of produce.
    He joked with Calb Hardly,
    Mr. Hardly’s son,
    while they unloaded eggs and cream
    down at the store.
    Pete Guymon teased Calb Hardly about the Wildcats
    losing to Hooker.
    Calb Hardly teased Pete Guymon about his wheezy
    truck sucking in dust.
    Last Friday,
    Pete Guymon took ill with dust pneumonia.
    Nobody knew how to keep that produce truck on the
    road.
    It sat,
    filled with turkeys and heavy hens
    waiting for delivery,
    it sat out in front of Pete’s drafty shack,
    and sits there still,
    the cream curdling
    the apples going soft.
    Because a couple of hours ago,
    Pete Guymon died.
    Mr. Hardly
    was already on the phone to a new produce supplier,
    before evening.
    He had people in his store
    and no food to sell them.
    His boy, Calb,
    slammed the basketball against the side of the house
    until Calb’s ma yelled for him to quit,
    and late that night a truck rattled up to the store,
    with colored springs,
    dozens of hens,
    filthy eggs,
    and a driver with no interest whatsoever