a Stark, Ohio poem


Nobody remembers that
name except the ancient
fat man in

the three-room museum
downtown. As a fat
little boy, he

rode the streetcar
on Saturdays
to its turnaround

atop Dickhardt Hill
by the Dickhardt barn,
long ago torn down.

Kids who now play
on the sandstone
foundation, know

its history
holding up the barn
the way they know

that Engine Number Nine
rolls down Chicago Line
but point vaguely “out there”

when you ask
where Chicago is.
Dickhardt likes

the winding brick street
and the huge oak
halfway up the hill.

He was born on
that hill, and used
the stone wall as first

base, but he’d laugh
if you told him
the place has his name.

We've never been
important enough for that,
he'd say.

It makes me want to read more in the series.  Funny, what a few words can do.  I can see that fat man in the museum; I guess he is the curator. I like knowing he was fat as a boy but still played ball.  I love that you did not pun on "Dick" and "hard".  Your poem is honest and enjoyable, and I thank you for it.   Jonathan Bracker

each of us creates all of creation in his own mind----that's what you're doing with these poems----and God sat back, looked at what He'd made, and said, "It's good."

michael