Eavesdropping

Somewhere North of the Tar River
In North Carolina, where
Sunlight splatters like tiny stars on the highway,
I pulled in for gas and a buffet breakfast.
At the table seated away from me,
Were four farmers wearing Jeans with suspenders,
Flannel winter shirts
Scissored to the shoulder,
And a well-worn cut of boot.
If you replaced the dogs smoking cigars
playing poker in that classic painting,
These fellas could easily replace them,
Smoking cheroots
With a bottle of Jack Daniels half full
singing in their eyes,
Riding a royal flush into another story of their life.
 
They were talking about another farmer, Nub or Dub
I had a hard time hearing them, thru their drawling,
Carolina accents, sounding like they were barbecuing every word.
But I tried,
And the other farmer, Nub or Dub, their neighbor,
had been out on his back meadow cutting hay,
When his tractor broke down,
gave way unexpectedly-
had forgotten- his phone and tools back in the barn,
Had to walk all the way back-
A mile or more so, I heard,
And these four fellas chuckled as if they had just heard a good joke,
 could not wait to see him,
A ‘good ribbing’ is what he would be in for,
 at the next Saturday breakfast buffet
And all four smiled together.

And just then a Stringbean of a man from the booth behind me
Got up with a strut, to pay his bill.
He was wearing a gun, holstered to his left hip.
And the four farmers elbowed each other.
Silently raised their chin acknowledging the gun and man.
As if they were keeping their quiet in church.
When one of them said ‘Must be out Saving America Today’
they all smirked. As did I.

I wanted to pull my chair over to theirs and tell them about my yesterday,
Up on the Blue Ridge
Hiking into the mountains of my past,
Where I found wild spearmint by the trail
That my nose thought smelled like Eucalyptus
And how age has brought me a gratitude,
For that one remembrance,
Yesterday,
of a purple haze
That hung like incense smoke,
Across the valley where I wanted to be
And not eavesdropping on four farmers
Across a scramble of eggs and French toast
In a restaurant in the Carolinas
Where I am sure next Saturday
I and my cheerful gratitude
Would have been in for a ‘good ribbing’.