Lemons Lemons

in memory of John Stabe -- worked for the Kaiser, befriended by H.B. Kinkade

Auspiciously bare, the eye roamed the room until it hit a trap door lying
in centered wait. A bachelor, this small German man, had the good sense
to store his perishables there -- a dark hole supported by cool grey.

From a river's bed, Stabe loaded his horses with round stones possessed from years of waiting for thick hands to carry them away. lemons H.B., his only friend this side of the divide, made famous Stabe's lemonade. Said, "It's the sweetest, freshest lemonade in Park County."
But all Stabe's lemons couldn't keep fever from coming on. He knew
he wouldn't make it.

Behind a sheltered house, sweat came between his palms
and the wooden shovel.
Another hole. Large. Large. Large. L arg e.
Exposed roots
helped Stabe struggle out;
dampness welcomed his blistered fingers
and faithful horses
torn down
with temple shots.
With a last bit of strength;
Stabe lifted his gun
regretting
not covering the warm carcasses.
Fever faded
from Stabe's face and rested
in a fine-silt-bed.