‘Dad and I’ and Other Poems by C.B. Anderson

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Dad and I

Our sessions last an hour or two at most,
for we get through them just as fast as can
be managed, trying not to stir the ghost
of hurts supposed to help me be a man.

When Dad was young, he knew exactly what
the world was all about: he took a chance
and ended up with me, then hammered shut
my bedroom door when won’ts were phrased as can’ts.

We have a beer together every year
or so, two men who never hug each other;
He tells me that he’s glad I’m not a queer—
but if I am, say nothing to your mother.

We end our conversation trading handshakes
while Mom prepares the sausages and pancakes.

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Lost in Boston

—a true story

They sent me out to do a bit of work
At someone’s garden in Jamaica Plain,
And on the way I nearly went berserk.
The signage and the signals were insane;

The mazy traffic-flow was Pollockesque,
With one-way arrows pointing me to where
I didn’t want to go. A boring desk
Job in the suburbs seemed, right then, a fair

Exchange for such a torturous ordeal.
At last I reached the designated yard
Where my express assignment was to heal
A decade of neglect. It wasn’t hard,

Because a plant wants nothing but to grow.
I headed back before it turned too dark
To see, but I got lost again: In low,
At rush hour, I was mired near Fenway Park.

What dreadful urban hellhole was I lost in?
None other than the Labyrinth of Boston.

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The Cobwebs at McSorley’s

On the brink of falling into a dark cauldron
of wholly unwelcome self-examination,
with his usual disdain for anything maudlin
or trite (unless of wholesome Irish persuasion)

he wolfed a few slices of cheese and dragged his bones
to where his drinking buddies were certain to be
at that hour. The lot of them were his epigones
When it came to drinking really seriously,

but able talkers and listeners nonetheless.
The ritual alternation of light and dark
was a lustral blessing for the palate from glass
mugs that were constantly rinsed and refilled each work-

day, and for simple hunger there were liverwurst
and ham sandwiches sold at cost. Professional
ballplayers, depending on the standings, were cursed
or lauded, and sometimes there was emotional

discussion of great ideas, like when they asked
him how come he suddenly gave up drinking
single malt whiskey and, frowning at the sawdust
on the floor, he said that spirits triggered thinking.

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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden.  Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India.  His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.