Tim Gavin - He & She, Circa 1929

Here he was the summer of '29,
driving a coal truck from upstate down route
611 towards Philly. He bought
cosmos at a road side stand
with a few pennies and shifted through
six gears. Drifting in and out of sleep, the lines
of imagination swerved
as he thought of her waiting on the front
porch, snapping beans. Waiting for him. Just
him. He would go directly to her after
dumping the final load of coal. He would
walk up, in his dusty work clothes,
a green thermos under his left arm, his
right hand behind his back:
the calloused hand, the delicate cosmos,
a still life of their own. She'd place
the strainer of beans on her lap & lean left
to peek behind him, but he'd shift his weight
from one foot to another extending
the thrill of his prize. Music would play
and their shadows would fox trot,
lope or pace. The music
would be carried, not by air,
but touch. He would stand there
a life time, admiring her hands folded,
the knuckles red from scrubbing floors;
she'd reach out and touch his left hand.
No words; words were for the unfamiliar.
Gestures, turns, a bit of eye contact
spoke proof. He'd bring his hand
from behind his back and deliver the flowers
that suffered the same exhausting trip
in the dump truck arriving
where they finally belonged.

Tim Gavin

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