How to Sort Them

That woman’s husband works the graveyard shift in a warehouse someplace. He’s a big man, and sleeps all day. I bet he drinks. But what do I know? Dark clouds are stealing in. Well, no they aren't. That's poetry, and bad at that. She’s a headstone color: gray hair, gray face. Her hooded sweatshirt’s dull, like a sheet of old tin. It’s as though she doesn’t look forward to much but passing away. Her eyes are gray too, though it's too easy to call them empty. Their tears might so easily—flow. Oh no. I’m fussing around for eloquence here and coming up empty. The woman and I just nod at each other as we wait by the post office window. Though I’m a rather old man now, I go on looking toward some sort of future. I’m a big man too, which may be why that woman shrinks. Or I think she does. We all like the postmistress, who’s old herself but spry, and despite her losses still cheerful and bright. Her hairdo’s new. I recall her husband, who was a person people here always called Big Mike. Some old folks claim the man could lift a barrel brimful of hard cider right over his head. I’d like to imagine some tribute to Mike. I’d write it, if that were feasible. A character, Mike. He drove a truck that he’d brush-painted pink. He lived with his wife and children and a bunch of critters and mixed-breed hunting dogs far back in the woods. In time the kids grew up and moved from here, but the family, we remember, seemed always so decent and gentle with one another. The postmistress wears that shirt she loves. It’s a pretty shirt. Now what shall I name it? Purple? Fuschia? Puce? And how might I sort them, good and evil? How portray them? Let the clouds above, the God-damned clouds, steal in. No, let them hurtle.