GRANDPA’S BIB OVERALLS
in his pockets—bits of straw, a bandana—
a Barlow to cut twine and salve in a tin
to heal the milk cows’ teats.
He washed his own long johns, ate at
the Home Café,
had a herd of ten Holsteins,
used one-hole of a two-holer outhouse
and belonged to the Evangelical United Brethren Church.
Sometimes when I wake at midnight
I’ve turned into him and get
up to go to the barn.
His bibs hang in the hall by the back stairs,
ready but useless next to my tweeds.
Sometimes I slip into them, put on muck boots
and go dig up dirt in the back yard.
What am I doing? I say to myself.
The bibs say:
Get your pencils, your pad, your banjo—