The Bank

The Bank

Dad said there was no future in the farm
he’d built with his brothers from the dirt
up, so he sent his sons off to bag

groceries, stock produce, flip
burgers while his brother and the bank
carved up the land and kept

the white meat. We knew fish
and cattle, rice fields and soybeans.
We knew jeans and family, sunup

to sundown, the names of the people
for whom we worked. My brother put in
thirteen years on the line before

being replaced by an elsewhere of lower
wages, looser laws. I filled a desk for nearly
a decade before standing in front of one

myself, giving my time to anyone who would
listen. Dad got old, took a position on
the couch, and filled his hours with TV

and crossword puzzles. These days, he can’t even
hear the trucks laying down a parking lot
in what used to be the family vineyard.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on The Dead Mule
From his Chapbook; MY MOTHER MAKING DONUTS