Turning 55

I sat with a woman at my niece's wedding and she told me this story.
It rumbled around in my mind and came out as two poems. The content
is the same, the organization changed.

I turned 55 in Bakersfield.

The locals huddled together
Their heads touched,
Shoulders heaved,

They couldn’t stop their sobbing.
I thought they were crying for me.

Then I heard someone say,
“Buck Owens died today!”

The men in their cowboy hats,
Tassels swinging from their shirts

The ladies in their high-heeled boots
Rhinestones shimmering on their skirts

But there was no celebration
In that one star motel in Bakersfield

The day Buck Owens died
And I turned 55.


Sandy Turned Fifty-five

Sandy stared at her reflection
in the motel room located at the edge Bakersfield,
she wiped her cheeks where the tears had fallen.

Dennis peeked into the room and scowled,
“You can’t turn back the hands of time…
so deal with it… You’re fifty-five.”

She splattered water on her face
put on her green sweater
and walked toward the lobby choking
on the smoke from a smoldering cigarette.

The TV rattled and buzzed with the news.
Men dressed in their cowboy boots,
women in their rhinestone skirts,
stood with their heads and shoulders touching.

Sandy could hear them sobbing.
“Are you crying for me?” she asked.
“Buck Owens died today,” she heard someone say.

“I guess there won’t be a celebration then,”
she sighed, pulled her sweater tighter around
her shoulders, turned and walked out the door

the day Buck Owens died
and she turned fifty-five.