Jon Tribble: Missionary Barrel
for my father
Like a loose plank on a flatbed Ford
skittering and shimmying the bolt free,
your life has shaken out the cotton fields
in Limestone County, the burger joints
and shoe store jobs, the backroom funeral
parlor part-time hearse driver and jack-
of-all-trades’ responsibility.
Vocation. A calling to gospel and a life of works
awaits you. It descended in a butcher’s
shop in Huntsville amidst the larder
and slaughter of this carnal life, but
you embraced the blood and spirit as
the only life preserver you’ll ever cling
to in these waves of fortune washing
America clean from dustbowl Depression,
Second World War, TVA, WPA.
You’ll swim after the flotsam sinking in a decade’s river
of prosperity, self-righteous washing machines,
air conditioning, television-driven tableau
of the easy life in the shiny modern future
available today in the city and suburbs
nearest you! for low monthly payments
and friendly terms.
You and your new wife
drop your names into the barrel and wait
for the tile to fall—Des Moines—spin
the wheel again—Nashville—turn the heavy
cylinder—Omaha—once more—Nome—no,
reset and try a last time—
Little Rock.
Adrift in the steady stream of home
missionary life in a country of selective
vision—no tarpaper shacks, open ditch
runoff, half-dressed children in our
backyard—you breathe deep each day before
going under once again, surfacing with
whatever lives you grasp tight enough.
Copyright 2017 Jon Tribble
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Jon Tribble
