Been There, Done That

Sparrow in a stiff wind—I’ve been there;
salmon in white water churned to the froth familiar to anyone
who’s tried to think it all through;
or caribou alone (How could that happen?) deep in bear country,
head up, hurried, trying not to look crazy with fear.
I’ve been there.

And I’ve been where dumb beasts don’t have to go,
nor wise guys, nor psychos—only the ordinary,
those who missed the wars, famines, wrecks, crack-ups;
who stood nearly shattered at their bedroom windows,
more and more convinced with each flash of lightning
that the twister was moving away;
those who were traveling when the quake razed their home town;
who watched the flood on TV, and the failed rescue
when a pit caved in on someone they didn’t know.

I’ve been there, and so have you, suffering commonplace divorce;
sleepless at three in the morning, at four, at five,
sorting and resorting unpaid bills, out of work, no groceries,
and not much left for sale that you swore you’d never sell—
except your blood;
prayed down to your last psalm, to one verse of that psalm,
praying because it still makes sense
to believe, to praise through clenched teeth,
to trust even when there’s nothing left to rely on—
except the shed blood of the Lamb.

Maybe your daughter has a taste for parolees
who slap her around; maybe your son
panhandles on Telegraph Avenue wearing a wizard’s hat;
maybe you’ve gone bail for Mom
and still drink from the bondsman’s souvenir coffee mug;
or you watched her set the record for dying hard,
her skin urine yellow against the white hospital sheets,
sitting up to scream at the end, family at her bedside, helpless,
like bad actors whose parts had been cut from that final scene.
Ordinary horrors.

Maybe Dad stroked out, too tongue-tied to cuss the Ump;
or just withered around his pacemaker;
maybe he died laughing, literally, died with his boots on,
which makes you want to weep whenever you think of it,
makes you want to find some holy ground
where you can take your shoes off.

I’ve been there, done that,
answered the phone calls that must come
at three in the morning, at four, at five in the afternoon;
walked away from friends, from help, from hurt, from easy money
and lost thousands, from wasted years, from last chances;
walked away from children who needed me
and stuck with bone-weary women who needed me to walk.

And it all adds up. Even if it’s nothing much for an obit;
even if I bypassed Vietnam, never rode a bull,
hopped a freight, or sailed off to Tangiers on a tramp steamer;
even if I only tried madness
like a toddler holding his breath to get his way,
it all adds up to more than a blue face or gray hair,
because I can say I’ve been there, alongside the sparrow,
slipping through chinks in the wind, exhilarated;
along side the salmon, happy to thrash in a crisis,
knowing we could have been netted, filleted, and smoked by now.
Even the caribou, stamping in the first thin snow,
nostrils flared, brandishing those antlers
no wise mother bear would teach her cubs to risk,
has survived this time, resilient, fine-tuned, hopeful.
He’s been there.


23 Pages
$9
isbn 1-882983-85-8

Once again Don Thompson’s sure eye, swift mind, and keen vocabulary create a selection of memorable poems. These are wise without becoming preachy as the poet’s range of subjects and styles continues to advance. Few of his contemporaries strike with so true a stroke. Make room on your shelf for this one. —Gerald W. Haslam (author of Coming of Age in California and Straight White Male)

Don Thompson was born and raised in Bakersfield, California, graduating from the local extension of Fresno State before earning an M.A. from the University of British Columbia. He now teaches at a prison and is an adjunct instructor at Bakersfield College. Thompson and his wife, Chris, live on a cotton farm in the house where she grew up. He has one teenage daughter still at hime, three adult children from a previous marriage, four grandchildren, three other chapbooks, a cat, a parakeet, and five dogs at last count.