May 2019
As a lifetime carpenter my style is rustic, simple but strong. I try to let the natural flaws of the wood become assets — the knot, the stain, the wavy grain — to find the character without polishing the crap out of it. Let the tree surprise us. And so, words.
Jean, fifth grade
was a practical girl
with a bony nose
skinny as a straw, gap in her teeth
dusky brown skin.
Chinese, somebody said.
Mexican, somebody else.
Never asked, now I wonder.
I was a practical boy.
She wore dull clothes
but she was bright,
smart as my dog, maybe smarter
always danced in bare feet.
Those days, maybe still, boys lined
one side, girls the other.
I’d head straight to Jean, offer my hand
because we danced good together.
Black hair bunched in a rubber band,
no bow or ribbon except her smile.
Girls teased, Jean scowled but
always took my hand.
Nothing planned, it just happened.
Dancing we hardly talked,
I was shy.
Without music we stayed apart.
Sixth grade she was gone.
You don’t know you’re in love
first time
until you do.
Advice to a 17-year-old self
You’re not as ugly
as they think.
Or as smart.
But you already know that.
You just don’t know
that you know.
About that shit-hole town
you can’t wait to escape
and never turn back?
You’ll find deeper shit-holes
in the nicest places.
You will return once
with children who say
it doesn’t look bad.
Oh— and that girl
with poodle eyes
who likes folk songs and wants
to see your guitar?
Hey, this time, don’t be stupid.
Play the G chord.
Follow the music
wherever she takes you.
Jean, fifth grade
was a practical girl
with a bony nose
skinny as a straw, gap in her teeth
dusky brown skin.
Chinese, somebody said.
Mexican, somebody else.
Never asked, now I wonder.
I was a practical boy.
She wore dull clothes
but she was bright,
smart as my dog, maybe smarter
always danced in bare feet.
Those days, maybe still, boys lined
one side, girls the other.
I’d head straight to Jean, offer my hand
because we danced good together.
Black hair bunched in a rubber band,
no bow or ribbon except her smile.
Girls teased, Jean scowled but
always took my hand.
Nothing planned, it just happened.
Dancing we hardly talked,
I was shy.
Without music we stayed apart.
Sixth grade she was gone.
You don’t know you’re in love
first time
until you do.
Advice to a 17-year-old self
You’re not as ugly
as they think.
Or as smart.
But you already know that.
You just don’t know
that you know.
About that shit-hole town
you can’t wait to escape
and never turn back?
You’ll find deeper shit-holes
in the nicest places.
You will return once
with children who say
it doesn’t look bad.
Oh— and that girl
with poodle eyes
who likes folk songs and wants
to see your guitar?
Hey, this time, don’t be stupid.
Play the G chord.
Follow the music
wherever she takes you.
“Jean, fifth grade” was originally published in Third Wednesday
© 2019 Joe Cottonwood
© 2019 Joe Cottonwood
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