Mail From the Farm

December 3,
back home from visiting
an art gallery and a movie alone,
I fetch mail from my box in the first-floor
vestibule, beige brightness
filling the space from the fixture overhead
Quiet darkness still trying to seep
in through the front door’s
wood-trimmed glass.

Purple envelope from the farm.
Old college roommate:
business degree
to Peace Corps
to family farmer
in central Minnesota.
His middle initial and last
name mushedtogether
on the return-address
sticker. Hope it was free.

Christmas card I assume,
though he’s never sent one
before.
Tear it open, walking upstairs.
Not a card, a poem,
photocopied poem.

“I think this guy was instrumental
in your career”
handwritten words next to the poet’s name.
We don’t speak much, farmer friend and I,
Minnesota far from Jersey,
and he has no e-mail there; a phone
only in the greenhouse. But he’s right.
The professor poet helped me
land an internship
big city
which led to a job
I held nineteen years.
More than work:
friends, loves, death, life
until, three weeks ago,
I walked away. In search of
more, in search of new, in search of
I’m not really sure.

My farmer roommate doesn’t
know this, no e-mail,
phone in the greenhouse.
Not even nineteen
when we met. Time’s funny, right.

The poem is good,
night ride in a cheap car
(I have one too),
a father
with a son
(which I do not).
The distance between,
growing.

The farmer has two sons. And a cheap car.
Maybe they rode into town together,
to the library,
boys laughing, bouncing in the kids’ section,
while dad skims a magazine.
Shock of recognition,
he heads to the copier
rough coin in hand.

And now in my hands,
cool clean unfolded sheets.
I stop between landings,
taking it in.
Career no more but
instrumental still
this poet
this farmer,
stand-up guys
both.
I strive to be one.
It’s my only plan for now.
I gently refold the poem
and I keep going.