Stubbornness sat smugly on the curve of a hillside
Beneath coy breaths of clouds, hanging heavy as Chinese rocket smoke in chill night air.
Its cellar had high arches of hefty brown stone, the kind the mason cut as coarsely as he could
To find the tenant still unhappy.
Between the colonnades were pearled agate tiles in copper and gray,
Though carefully placed many were peeling, as if by design, in a most inconvenient pattern.
They couldn’t agree on something as simple as the lettering on a temporary sign.
It wasn’t the spacing or the merits of its catchy syntax or edgy euphoniousness.
They couldn’t agree on the timing. It made the rest feel so upstaged.
Making those feel justified to rail on about the one about to run off to South Carolina
With the woman he went to summer camp with so long ago.
Stubbornness can hit you like that, like a crowded field of windmills.
It can be written in black marker on the fender of a rusted out ’55 Chevy,
Whose days as a dog coop are numbered,
Written to a father in his son’s own hand, “This is what happens when we can’t agree.”
Copyright - Ronald Rabenold – July 1, 2011