(Chalmers Gage, 1918-2018)
He was a dairy farmer
in Elk Grove, California.
The Valley. The fingers
of his hands were as thick
as saplings, and when he
took a dip of Copenhagen
tobacco, he loaded a third
of a can between lip
and lower teeth. He never
raised his voice. Gave
the impression the world
at large permanently
perplexed him, as if he
were asking himself,
Why do people make
everything so hard when
work is hard enough?"
Of his wife, he sometimes
said, "I don't think I'll ever
figure that gal out." Not
complaining. Just saying.
In his sixties he sold the farm
and lived another 35 years.
Died at a hundred, quiet like,
the one last job to finish.
hans ostrom 2019
