Little Old Man

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A.P. Harbor

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There's a little old man in his little blue pickup truck
His St. Bernard beside him in the seat
He's well on his way, this afternoon, to the post-office
But he's stopping by the market to pick him up some fruit

In the bustling of the town, he picks out a crate of oranges
Two cents a pound- and takes the oranges home
One rolls out the back of the pickup truck and tumbles
On its melancholy way down the dusty market road

The little old man turns the truck around
Retracing the footsteps of the orange as it rolls
Well on its way, this afternoon, toward the post-office
Bobbing, it ricochets into the great unknown

The little old man parks his little blue pickup truck
In the post-office patron parking lot
His St. Bernard has confirmed there's no mail here today
So they turn their eyes to the deep and endless hole
It stretches like a puncture in the plane of their vision
In the shoulder of the sidewalk by postbox
And like ostriches they dive headfirst into the chasm
And reunite with the orange down yonder as they go

The three of them have fallen down here many times before
Whether in holes in the road or in the ribcages of dogs
The little old man and his St. Bernard, Nudley
And the orange, round and perfect as the sunlight through the fog

They come to a fence
An unnecessary fence
Only three feet wide in the center of a field
Easily scalable
Easily passed by
And flimsy enough to level
With very little effort

They didn't harm the tiny fence, without a doubt
Isn't that a nice thing to think about

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