Walking with My Dog this Last Thanksgiving in Uniontown, Pennsylvania

Poetry

It may have been the last time that I’d ever
visit the house where I had lived between
eleven years old and something like eighteen.
Beyond the housing plan, the ridges never
seemed a better metaphor or measure
for the inability of things to mean
anything but what they literally mean.
My dog engaged in some houndish endeavor.
There was a hawk. There was a goldfinch, green
with winter. Mom and Dad have bought a place
in the city. I can still remember when
my brother, who is dead, and I would race
through the woods behind the yard. The woods have seen
nothing. The trees are trees and not young men.

17 thoughts on “Walking with My Dog this Last Thanksgiving in Uniontown, Pennsylvania

  1. the ridges never
    seemed a better metaphor or measure
    for the inability of things to mean
    anything but what they literally mean.

    Yes. Thank you.

  2. Sharp observations. Especially like the seeing the green under the dusty gray the goldfinches put on this time of year.
    Uniontown is such a different landscape from the Pittsburgh industrial sprawl just over the horizon, too.

  3. those finches, wild canaries in Penn’s Eastern Sylvania, they certainly captured my soul in my childhood there, along with the pheasants, a wee person’s person’s peacock and potential dinner.

    1. the second “person’s” was unintentional, sigh, if I could only have stated it ….face to face, soul to soul ….

  4. In my poetry conspiracy we have a highly technical, profoundly intellectual phrase we use to mark poems like this: “fuck, yes.” Fantastic–and that’s from one Westsylvanian to another. Thanks.

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