I woke up early this morning with this poem in my head. It's in the new manuscript, so of course I've been rereading it fervently along with the rest of the collection. But I couldn't figure out why it might be niggling at me more than the other poems were. And then I remembered that, as I was driving to Dover last night to pick up kids after theater practice, I was listening to a Fresh Air interview with an accordion player. The songs mentioned in this poem are all polkas, so perhaps that was the dream link. On the other hand, its bossiness might be linked to an acquaintance's request to send her some poems about aging that she can use in her work with nursing-home residents. I hadn't intended to send her any of my own poems, but maybe this poem was telling me that I should.

Mill Hunky

Dawn Potter

Raised in a coal patch flaunts his mustache survives

on pierogis and Coca-Cola splashes liquid steel into girder molds

plays the squeezebox plucks the guitar gulps dago red from a pint bottle

sleeps it off in the Ford bets on the dog races carries a switchblade

cheats at cards curves his rough palm round the hip of a big Slovene girl

from Johnstown sings In Heaven There Is No Beer sings I’ve Got a Wife at Home

swears at the umpire dreams of victory staggers into a church

at two in the morning loves his brother as himself ignores advice

spends his pay on a gold tooth

this bent old man with no teeth left a shabby dog

and five grandbabies Beloved Be Faithful he sings

and curves his rough palm over the dog’s

narrow head.