stickman review

                        Chance

was not a cowhand, mostly, though one year
he went around the rodeo circuit
for somethin—nothin really, he never won.
But like everybody back then he kept
upn an goin, searchin. Acted a bit
too: seemed like someone elses life.
He mostly roamed though. So it was by chance
he stopped in these parts, at Mikes General.
Mike told him that they needed help out here.

The place looked deserted when he got here.
He knocked, halloed, no answer. He was ready
to leave maybe come back later maybe
move on without even leaving word

when a sudden snap of wind sent a stray sack
around from out back. So what not his problem
not his job. Another gale an crackling sounds.
He moseyed round an saw a sky of white.
Sheets an more pillowcases on the line
an off like abandoned angels flappin an wavin.

He was about to pin a stray one back
on the line when a thunderclap told him Look up.
Storm comin. So like the gate bein sprung
he rassled down the linens record time
an creased them neatly, stacked them on this porch,
safe from the drizzle. Then the downpour. Usually
late afternoon rains brief around these parts
but this day it went on.

So he sat for a second. A second he said to himself
till the rain stops. But it didnt. So, tired as death
an lulled by the steady even wash of the rain
which subsided after the wildness of the claps
he dropped off in the chair youre sprawled in now.

Lookin back he couldnt tell me what woke him
but he sure woke up dreamin to the smell
of bacon then a wetness on the back
of his hand which turned out to be the terrier.
Now that was a good dog, miss him, hed say.
Then Mister with a plate. Missus with coffee
an juice. An once they talked he had a job,
a family, friends, a home, a town, a life.
See there was nothin ever really wrong with Chance.

An now that familys old, the daughters gone.
He almost married one but theyve stayed friends.
An so he runs the place. I took him on
when I bought it you see. An he makes Joe
like nobodys business. I think I hear him now.

I told him on this very porch one day
how C-H-A-N-C-E was just a squiggle off from C-H-A-N-G-E.
He couldnt figger me. I printed his name
in the ledger. The sun popped gold in the east
just as its doin . . . see it poppin . . . now . . .
an handed him the pen. Can you make CHANGE
from that? He stared Whatre you, a writer or somethin
an smiled an chucked my shoulder with a fist.

Suns up. Ill make us coffee. An I laughed.

by James B. Nicola