Bill & Banjo
by D. K. Sterling

The homestead was old
when they married and moved in
but never seemed like "this"--
(crying desperate around the edges)
rather a condition slowly settled
over since Edna passed on
to a better place.

Neighbours recall
a time when the property was
"just so....."
(the way Edna liked)
she was always fussing over
issues like curtains
and many other complimentary
little things.

Now Bill laments to Banjo
complaining about flies
loitering on their kitchen table--
two grayed souls sharing canned tuna
and black-eye peas
from the same bent spoon...
neither bothering to notice
the smelly remains
of last weeks "catch"
collected in a corner
barely contained
in a sloppy, seeping
brown paper grocery bag.

Surely no more than
eight teeth between them,
Banjo cleans his face with
worn out paws
while Bill wipes his hands
on an old newspaper
and wails "Amazing Grace";
back door flopping
(to and fro)
strangely in tune
with his broken voice.

Behind the house
lies an appliance graveyard--
a heap of stuff that either died
from being too tired
or simply can't be figured out
anymore since shades of his memory
began to fly away.

Sometimes Bill sorts through
his treasure trove of junk
picking up this or that
exclaiming, "what the hell?"
before putting it all back
into its rightful place;
a scent of soured rainwater
and rusted metal fills
the overgrown lawn
like a decaying salvage yard.

Bill's son Eli
swears it's a total disgrace--
doesn't want any of his friends
to know his father lives
like this and makes up suitable
stories to cover the embarrassment,
though he never bends his back to
straighten or clean up anything
on the weekend...
after all, he's married now
and has to drive the kids
to soccer practice.

Still, always swearing
he's sure the health department
is on the way any minute--
informs dad he needs to allow him
to sell the land and move into
that very sterile looking
old folks home
on the corner of 3rd and Johnson;
says he's sure they'll take
very good care.

Bill replies if that's all
his son ever wants to discuss
he can just forget to come back;
he's been there 42 years now,
has no interest in trying
to get used to someone else's cooking
or when and how to wear his clothes,
take a bath and all that other
nonsense.

Besides, he knows they don't
take kindly to cats over there
and who would look after Banjo?
Nah, they've been doing just fine
on beans and tuna--
looking after one another,
so as far as Bill's concerned
(at least while he can remember)
the subject is closed.