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| Grant's Pass |  | |  | |
by Sid Miller | |
Grant's Pass
At the downtown pharmacy, the one
with the soda fountain, the line is long
with kids. Elvis plays on the radio
and the hands of the sixteen year old girl
behind the counter are stained
red from maraschino cherries.
The air is sweet from sugar and even
though the scene is old-fashioned,
all thoughts are of right now.
Outside, a banner hangs the width of 6th Street
and spells out the town motto, it’s the climate.
The sky is cloudless and the sidewalks
are packed with these kid’s parents.
They surround statues—dedications
to this country’s wars. A five foot tall eagle,
for example, is draped with the stars and stripes.
One man in the crowd has his picture taken,
his left arm across the eagle’s back, his right
holds his hat across his chest.
Sacrifice. Messy hair.
Back inside, my vanilla malt is handed
across the counter. I smile and pull
out my camera, ask some teenager
to do the honor. He asks if I wouldn’t
prefer to go outside and pose
with an eagle. I tell him that I prefer
my Americana shaped like a hamburger,
but without one handy,
this ice cream will do just fine.
Umatilla
In the graveyard one can count
the stones on fingers
and memorize the names.
Quiet here—the Army Depot
too far away to hear
the sound of marching.
Even the Columbia
just a few blocks off, moves
too slowly to be heard.
With so much lawn here,
not a soul is worried.
Pull up a blade of grass
and tightly wrap your finger.
As the heat builds under
the nail, the first live body
walks by—a young man
in work overalls. Impossible
to tell if he’s coming or going,
just happy to be doing
either, a grin
and a half drank longneck
dangling between two fingers.
Like the others, he’s happy
to mind his own business.
La Grande
For six days I haven’t shaved
and behind me, inside the pharmacy,
my wife’s in line with bubblegum
and a pregnancy test.
Skilled masonry lines this main road,
old buildings with details
now seen only for profit.
Eighty years ago the population peaked
and these works of art
no longer house man’s necessities,
just coffee and dumbbells.
Some years ago my hair ran down
past my shoulders. Before I met her,
my wife was pierced in more places
than one can mention in this town.
We’ll stay here longer than we should.
We understand how easy it is to change,
yet how hard it is to grow.
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Sid Miller's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Crab Orchard Review, Poetry Southeast, and Portland Review. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, Miler is the Founder and Editor of the poetry journal Burnside Review.
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