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WHAT DO I SAY ABOUT MY UNCLE


What do I say about my uncle,
who calls to remind me about
the Lord who made us all, ask me how
he can get his hymns recorded,
tell me the one about the dumb blonde
or the two colored gentlemen:

What about my mother's funeral,
where he reminded us all that
although he loved his sister dearly,
she had not taken Jesus Christ
into her heart as her personal
savior, so she was doomed to hell?

Or when he ran for the town council
on the Lyndon LaRouche ticket?
How'd he get duped into that? I know,
it's the same thing: his innocence.
Eighty four now, he's still a small boy,
calling with blonde jokes, darkie jokes,

asking if I remember Chaplin,
the Toonerville Trolley, Windsor
McKay, Snuffy Smith, the Two Black Crows,
warning—son of artists himself— 
that if I let artists into my home,
next they'll be bringing naked ladies.

More problematic: how to fit in
1949, when he came
to Kingston, to visit my mother
in the hospital, and dropped in
to please a friend, on a young woman
who had been there for three years, and

would die within the month. How he was
handsome, innocent, bounding with
silly life, and fell in love with her,
and made his naïve vow that love
would save her. I guess she taught him how
to pray, he taught her how to love— 

can it be that simple? Anyway,
they were married, and he moved out
of his quaint studio in Woodstock
to a trailer in Ellenville,
and she lived for nine years, and they went
to church, and sat on folding chairs.


Author's Note: Every word of this poem is true. He saved a woman's life with love, and how many of us have done anything that even approaches that?