came out of a song, the name did.
skipped in on the wind, stuck like discarded paper
beyond the fence where Hoppy lived in a shack
at the town dump, on a knoll above Mud Brook.
he was resident care taker, barroom dart baller,
and sometime crossing guard downtown.
a tiny fellow in second hand clothes, worn seaman’s cap,
one leg way shorter than the other.
we’d examine approachable edges when we went dumpin',
finding some old wood piece, or metal gadget,
antiquated discards, to pick up, cart off,
recycle and transform into inventive service.
a busted end table or a bicycle,
an unbroken bit of colorful depression glass,
an original period lamp in need of rewiring,
a long, long time before anyone spoke of toxins.
today not a trace is left of that place on that knoll,
plowed and replanted clean. the dump's been moved,
gone with Hoppy, as are most of those who remember,
the rise over the creek called Mocking Bird Hill.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
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2 comments:
Hoppy Lavue(SP?)... yes I remember. Always a pal to us kids . I can't help but wonder if there would be a good place for Hoppy today.
Hi Jack,
There are wonderful lines here and great sentiment. These are some of my favorites:
"skipped in on the wind, stuck like discarded paper..."
"we’d examine approachable edges when we went dumpin'..."
"recycle and transform into inventive service..."
I can see the old man, Hoppy, and the place where the dump has been. Your rhythm, and your respect for Hoppy, and your fondness for the dump, carries me along. Your tone is quiet, almost peaceful, except for the unease- too much is gone. By the end of the poem, Mocking Bird Hill seems like the name of a cemetary, but that's a good thing- a way to memorialize both a place and a man.
The history of place names are always more than the name alone can convey.
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