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Pilgrims: Uncle Sid
JAMES B. HALL
JAMES B. HALL
PILGRIMS: UNCLE SID
In water there is recognition
And therefore my Uncle Sid
Stared something less than forty years
Into a falling, or a rising, reservoir.
When the B & O dammed up a reach
Of Honey creek they took him on,
When young, to lower or to raise
Their floodgates, according to season,
And so my Uncle Sid arose
And walked out each winter day
Six miles to work, and then walked back
A watcher of water, and sometimes small carp.
But good only as a watcher
Of water, it was well said,
For in the droughts of summer
He slept upright, on an old nail keg,
And being twice bought, he elected
Not to fish, nor vote, nor even speak
Until at last it was well said
That he, himself, was much like water.
After something less than forty years
He died one night, in his house,
In his own bed, grim to the very end
When his own sluice gates sprung
Inside the reaches of his own lungs
And uncaged that vast calamity of waters
Which cleansed not much at all from his wallet
Then flooded forever the mud flats of his brain.