The Coal Chute


They rise, these dim and dusty memories— 
the coal truck pulling up along the curb
in front of Nana’s house, harsh melody
of gritty bits of black that swiftly poured
down the old truck’s gray chute into a small
cellar window above the wooden bin
that held the winter’s precious hoard of fuel
against the dark. And I can see again
my Grandpa in his bathrobe, standing there
before the open maw of smouldering coal
that needed stoking in that sooty air
before his household woke to winter cold.
And even though there now is no demand,
I’m standing here, coal shovel in my hand.





Summer Ice


The ice-man entered through the kitchen door,
his sharp tongs biting hard into a chunk
of blue-green ice, then dropped it in the sink
as sawdust spilled onto the dripping floor.
He hoisted in another piece or two,
then carried them across the room to stack
them in the icebox where a dwindling block
had melted down into a milky stew.
We felt the heat buzz hard against the house
like angry insects beating to get in,
and all the fan blades whirred against the sun
while Nana wiped her forehead on her blouse.
And sometimes I would reach inside to touch
those frozen slabs of lake that came to us.





The Milkman


He came before the dawn, his buggy pulled
by horses clopping down the gas-lit street 
where Nana lived. My bed was by the wall
but I’d wake up, remembering the treat
of having jumped up on his running-board,
for sometimes, when he’d come after the sun,
I’d ride along with him. I often heard
him coming from afar, and I would run
to stroke his aging horses as they tossed
their silky tails and tensed sturdy backs.
I still can see the bottles’ milky frost,
feel the sweat that trickled down glass necks--
and now, although my milkman is no more,
I think I hear his horses at my door.