Robert Cory’s poem Alcatraz appeared here as part of Contributor Series 9: If Men Had Ears.
Arthur: of Volutsia Street
By Robert Cory
By Robert Cory
Rod was our clean-up hitter.
Batted left, threw right; had buck teeth.
Lived several blocks north of Lincoln Street
in Arthur’s neighborhood.
No relation but had the skinny on how
we could make some easy money.
Subsequent to a short, shady walk
we peered through Arthur’s fence.
His back yard
by and large plowed ground
where stood a broad stand of
sweet corn tall as anything.
Vibrant, cultivated in harmony
with assorted vegetables
found at any respectable roadside stop.
On its perimeter
winds of garden hose, dandelions
and native grass gone to seed.
Rod rang his doorbell. I, a step aside.
Presently, Arthur appeared,
half-opening the door.
Bib overalls w/one cross-over strap,
no shirt,
silver whisker stubble
and shy a few teeth.
Nose large enough
to give Darwin pause.
His clapboard domicile
only slightly larger
than a jumbo U-haul trailer.
As arranged: Arthur would pick and bag.
We would sell door-to-door
in our respective neighborhoods,
undercut the local supermarket rate.
For each dozen ears of home grown sold
we would each gross two cash dimes.
One crop tour and four sorties later
Arthur counseled it might be another week,
or so,
before we could return.
He thanked us for our hustle,
reticent, curt, and so forth.
Whereupon we splurged at the DQ
four blocks west.
Nearly two weeks passed before Rod again
mentioned Arthur; during a pre-game warm up.
Maybe stop by and see, later,
if Arthur had produce to peddle.
Same afternoon
Rod rang the doorbell, me, a step aside.
(Repeat.)
Wait.
Ring, ring.
(Pause.)
Knockknockknock.
His mailbox was overstuffed, sated;
most windows ajar–
ingress for the oven-like August air.
The gate to his back yard open, wide,
inviting crows & trespass.
The stand of sweet corn shabby, neglected.
The tomatoes, peppers, and calabacita overgrown.
(My mother kept tabs on the obits._
We finished our season on a winning note,
a double-header til near midnight
in a small town not so far, out of town.
Rod hit .500 or better
with a 3-run 4-bagger top of the first
in the nightcap.
The transition from elementary to junior high
loomed large that August.
Labor Day came and went.
Still no sign of Arthur.
No sighting, obit, rumor, or revelation.
But somehow it seemed proper
to surmise, as the oaks began to turn
and acorns fall,
that Arthur was gone for good.
But where? I ask
each time Arthur of Volutsia Street
just happens across my mind.
