Poppy's Brush Pile

Poppy’s Brush Pile

Poppy liked to tell the story

about the time he did a little

yard cleaning and had a grand old pile

of brush and leaves, probably

about ten feet high more than likely,

and reckoned he couldn’t  

bag it all, that Ketchem’s

didn’t have enough bags to sell

even if he’d a-wanted to, so he

figured on it awhile and settled on

a big burning as the best way—

shortly the pile would be gone,

and while it was a-going he could

set on the porch and just watch.

So he took a dry bunch of leaves

up under the pile and dropped

his half-smoked Marlboro.

One tiny spark and a smidgen

of smoke and nothing else.

Well, this ain’t working

worth shooting, he said.

Then he went to the porch

and got a-hold of the morning paper,

crinkled it all up, stuffed it

in the pile and lit a match.

The paper burnt quick

and awful hot but petered out

before doing its business—

‘bout like my pecker, Poppy said—

so he went back to figuring.

Then he remembered that five-gallon can

of regular gasoline he had sitting

in the shed, and he wasn’t about

to let a damned brush pile

make a fool of him. He took the can

and scrabbled to the top, standing

like the precious good Lord

come again on Mount Olive,

and dumped the gas all over the pile.

‘Course it took awhile to pour

five gallons, so in the meantime

the fumes worked their way

all into the little pockets

of air. As you might guess

but Poppy didn’t, not quite yet,

when the match was dropped

the blast blowed him

clear into the flower bed,

heels heavenward. He said he smelt

singed ass-hairs for two weeks after.

He liked to tell this story and say,

See there, honey, even if you reckon

you got the best idea, you still

might want to figure awhile.

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For dVerse Meeting the Bar. I have been absent from the bar for a few months, and sincerely missed everyone. Peak season at work, tons of overtime. I still was able to do a fair amount of reading, but very little writing. Just couldn't find the motivation, the inspiration, the whatever it is that makes me put pen to paper and try to make sense of my world. 

Anyway, our host Tony Maude has us hearkening back to previous prompts, and since I missed so many I felt a lot of freedom. This poem is meant for the prompt Victoria offered, in which she invited us to write close to home, personal, in the common speech of daily life. I actually had another poem ready that I wrote last night, but things happened and I didn't submit. Then as I was falling asleep I thought about this story, so I wrote it out this morning.