Ernie Taylor in the 30’s
dug ditches in a CCC camp,
swore he’d never work
that hard again and never did.
Some covet vineyards in Provence ,
some their photo on magazine covers,
Ernie a little beer money
and the freedom to be odd.
He cleaned house and cooked
for sweet Loretto, an IRS clerk,
made love to her every night
and weekend afternoons,
trimmed hedges now and then
for widows and sick old men,
ladled soup into the cups of the wounded,
pushed wheelchairs at the VA.
Every noon Ernie, at the neighborhood tap,
presided over world affairs,
a bowl of spicy goulash, brown bread
and frosty mugs of lager.
A tam knitted by Loretto
cocked on his naked bean,
he could grin a constipated Republican
into voting Democratic.
He died with that grin
after a mid-winter’s lunch,
a round of cold ones, two or three smokes,
and a Jim Beam hummer.
In his will, they said, he left Loretto all
his love, a hedge trimmer and rake,
and his legacy of living
a good and honest life.
Now that, my friends,
is an American dream.