An Early Exit

My eyes grow weary with gazing upward. —Isaiah 38:14

            ~I~

“We don’t get out much anymore.”
That’s how she puts it, trying
to swat a fly and finish telling 

her pastor why her Coley
keeps holed up in his shop
out back with this hankering 

to put life in a headlock
and squeeze until there’s a pop
and blood from the nose, 

why there’s no more church,
not with those Holy Rollers
leapfrogging in tongues to impress. 

God? Sure, but even so.
“His knees ain’t what
they used to be.” 

I nod. Either way,
amen. I stand
too soon to leave. 

She knows, so says,
“Don’t take it personal, Preacher.
He’s always been determined. 

He just sits out there and sharpens
saw blades all day. I swear, he’s done
rolled up his life with his sleeves.”

The dry breeze carries her words from the porch
over my shoulder toward the arid, alligatored fields,
green stalks low for July, their level best 

given the little rain we’ve had.
She can’t stand to see Coley’s rawboned head
spend itself bent 

over a wheel of sparks
spraying into nothing.
The edge he sets 

I can see. Safe in my car,
backing out, I manage
a smile as she waves. 

~II~

Time was, a church potluck
one early May saw Coley hunkered
obeisant with the rest of the men 

on his heels beneath the big elm.
He sized up the bottomland on all sides, the dark
gumbo muck, furrowed and flat and lying in wait, 

till a grin cracked loose from his head:
“Like they say, ‘You stick with it all summer,
and it’ll stick to you come winter.’” 

We laughed as he rose, not knowing
where the Spirit goes, that he was about
done and sure to get shed of us.