Sticks
by Odin Roark

A stick is a stick,
Unit it isn’t.

Granddad knew.
People still whittled then.
Clasp knives had a purpose
On porches and tree stumps
Wisdom did sit
Piling shavings at their feet

Heads on paws,
Dogs blinked occasionally,
Keeping close watch on creation.

Sticks got shorter,
And shorter,
Then very short.

For many a granddad
Whittling was intense
Sculpturing the day’s purpose
Rendering heavy thoughts ever light
As dogs, children,
Passersby,
Exchanged one’s everyday little thoughts.

And so it was.

There was precision and reason in his focus,
Even as he suffered through a day’s
Crunch
Cram
And grind,
Anticipating the sculptured big stick
Becoming his prideful little stick,
Later.

As late night fireflies danced,
He rocked on the porch,
Explored the meaty stowaways of the day,
And savored the best parts,
Only he and his toothpick could appreciate,
The dog now with raised head.