where the turquoise ring has fallen
richard perkins
Before the first breeze of day finds itself,
I journey forth to cleanse and scour
The earth with my metal detector.
Sweeping across the primeval grounds
Of Chicagošs west side,
A halfling, cinnamon-shenned girl
Follows me through yards
On gawky flamingo struts,
Scouting my progress only for her
Own satisfaction.
When, after a few phantom blips,
I uncover a tarnished turquoise ring,
She tells me her gramma had given her
The ring long ago and shešs buried
It then, but couldnšt recall just where.
Soon, shešs trailing me around
With an oversized ring on her thumb,
A pocketful of assorted change,
An old thimble, and L.B.J. campaign button.
She lets me keep the beer-tabs,
Rusty nail, and four tiny batteries
Which she says are spent cartridges
Of the bullers that had killed her friend,
Junie, in the front yard last summer.
Later, as I pack up to leave,
And the wind recovers its name,
She asks me if my finding machine
Can bring people back from out
Of the ground too -
Just as easy as coins
And jewelry and shells.
