Groucho Marx and the Vlasic Pickle Stork
by Nathaniel Dunaway

Stacked pillows on the couch end.
Boot marks in the gray carpet
by the butter-bucket spit cup.
Smiling rows of children, great and grand,
on the wood paneled wall.
A pink flyswatter
and the ever effecient 'Gopher Grabber'
(as seen on tv!)
perched on the back of the couch.
A beer and a cup of coffee
on the stocky side table,
with the old timer pocket knife
and the worn flicker dicker
next to one arm.
And Tiger, asleep and dreaming,
next to the other.
Across the way sits the bulky television set
that Grandma and I carried in
only days before.
"That's a damn fine tv!"
the Old Timer had said.
Seven fingers on two hands,
and a branch in the shape of a rifle,
hidden away behind the dark brown dresser.
Built by a man gone long ago.
Weeks in the woods spent with
an old hound dog.
Fires made to keep the cougars at bay.
The Appalachian's trampled
beneath his tongueless boots.
Like the ones Mom bought him
not enough Christmases ago.
"Gimme back my arm", he whispered.
Sharing a pillow with his wide-eyed Grandson.
With Buckskin.
"Who knew?" Said The Grief,
as it reminded me of our last conversation.
One of many I had taken for granted.
Shattered glass embedded in old dirt,
and a bent mailbox next to the graying bench.
Built by a man gone too soon.