NO SECRET
E. J. told the story
how he had cowboys ease
cows around the mountain
several times to please
the banker parked below
with that grin that had been there
several times, his eye a twinkling.
Cattle scattered to the steep
brush and rock, you had to call
them out of Greasy – cows, calves
and yearlings boiling out of canyons
– his announcement rung
with prolonged octaves rolling upwards
into unending echoes
where the poppies on Sulphur
cut into the deep blue.
Being there with Earl was too spiritual
for numbers, for young appraisers
to even remember
where in the hell they were.
Dad told the story
how Cal went broke farming in Exeter
in the 30s – then went to the bank
to manage their foreclosures
– learned the best ground and got it
to pay it’s way into a real estate
business.
It’s no secret: banks have no friends,
nor any real expertise to get a job done –
and now that they’ve leant
what they didn’t have,
damn little sympathy once again.
for Jerry
2/27: Linda Hussa’s wonderful poem “Nor a Borrower Be” sticks out in my mind as a great ‘banker poem’, illustrating the tenuous, and helpless, relationship between borrower and lender, between rough and capable hands and those of soft-fleshed paper pushers. Timely this a.m. as Citibank tanks on Wall Street once again.
New pickup, shiny clean, pulls into the yard
No hay stacked three tiers high
No jumper cables or fix-it-all tool box
or handyman jack
or wads of bailing wire
or cans of staples
or hammer with pipe handle welded on
or fork or shovel
or pile of rusted chains
No 30.30 resting between dining-out coyotes
No old dog on the seat along for the ride.
A new pickup with three men inside
shoulder to shoulder
stiff clothes with ironed creases
stiff faces with importance.
Walking out to meet them
a man in worn clothes that know sweat, not starch
rough hand
that sends a loop surely
pulls a colt sweetly
seals a deal
changes a wheel
and bleeds
is extended politely
to men
who won’t meet his eyes.
Inside, the woman
sets out cream and sugar and cups of coffee
as if in welcome.
- Linda Hussa
Where the Wind Lives, Gibbs Smith Publishers, 1994
Comments
The thing about cows is
you can run them around the mountain,
and maybe yet again
if your wife feeds him hot steaming biscuits,
and maybe your sister-in-law engages him
in talk
and your son shows him how to cast a loop.
You all tally
but it takes time.
You can’t make the land
rise up to be counted
more than once.
Can’t make a mark
In the same river twice.
Can’t dazzle the man
who counts
the collateral.
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