What Your Cousin Davey Knew

What Your Cousin Davey Knew

Do you think your cousin Davey knew,

When he suddenly died at 62,

That the time he sat on his front porch

After supper,

Under the Summer Triangle,

When the air was finally cooling off—

          God it was a hot one—

his thoughts drowned out

By the katydids and cricket calls,

The trilling owl and far-away yelp

Of the coyotes,

Answered by the rising bay of his hounds

In their compound just behind the

Clapboard house—

          Missing a few shingles

          And a shutter or two—

Things he just hadn’t gotten around to

fixing

Quite yet;

Do you think he knew

That it was the last time he’d see those brightening stars,

Or hear that fine chorus,

Or hush his dogs—

           for Pete’s sake, shut up—

Or that he’d never get

to those little annoying repairs? Patricia Thrushart
 http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/