Being evicted, he said, from his lawn chair in the driveway, because he spent
too much money on vet care for his sick dog, got a little behind on the rent. It’s hard.
Being evicted, that’s the worst thing, he says, except for the really worst things,
like losing a faithful companion or dying yourself or being too long pent up. It’s hard.
The dog was old, at least ninety in human years, couldn’t be saved, some kind of cancer.
He’s trying to be healthy himself, gave up cigarettes, a death sentence. It’s hard.
He gets by mostly, painting houses for some cash—the money’s not bad—
to buy the groceries, relying on social-security checks from the government. It’s hard.
There’s a wife somewhere, hasn’t left him, just not here, a couple of grown-up kids;
not much they can do, but there’s a little help they’ve sent. It’s hard.
He’s got some pay coming, some promised work, just needs a little time,
has stored some stuff, but can’t get to it, at the place of a hospitalized friend. It’s hard.
It’s hard, he says, taking a sip from his quick-stop coffee cup. He’s lucid, but repetitive,
so maybe it’s spiked a little, but who could blame him if it is. It’s hard.
He loved that dog, like a family member, should’ve put him down but couldn’t to it;
held on as long as he could, the dog did, but finally his time came, and he went. It’s hard.
I was just passing by, having an after-dinner walk, when he called me over to chat,
needing only a sympathetic ear, a listener so he could vent a little. Because it’s hard, really hard, sometimes.
He wasn’t asking for help, just needing to tell his small-scale tragic story—
losing his dog, running short of money, needing a place. His gentle lament: It’s hard.
Copyright 2023
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 