How, upon retirement, I came to this job
is quite another story, but now the story is here,
directing people to various bins and tanks,
pushing the button on the giant compactor,
giving directions to a local dentist or I-95.
It’s a bit like Floyd’s barber shop—
you say Howdy to the neighbors
and talk about the weather.
A rain gauge is required.
It’s more than that, of course, and less,
and often slow enough that I bring books or tapes
or laptop, write poems or sermons,
do a term paper, given a quiet stretch at midweek.
And though the sign says Open at eight,
I leave the gate ajar when I come in
at seven, a convenience to someone
on an early commute and no real bother to me.
And often as I latch the gate open,
I think of Pete Ballard,
that sawed-off little Cajun,
who showed up early one morning
to take care of a faulty light,
who found the gate already open
and said I see the clown is in the tent.
And when I looked puzzled,
he took a deep drag and explained
If the clown is in the tent,
the circus can begin.
So easy it would be to come in early,
close the gate, make a pot of coffee,
unfold a crisp newspaper, and read till eight.
But today, the gate’s open,
and Roger and I chat about gospel songs.
I go back in, humming the chorus
of “Long Black Train,”
while older words thread their way
in and around these mournful lines:
The Lord is in His holy temple,
let all the earth keep silent before Him—
but I cannot keep silent.
I turn on a CD of Randy Travis singing
“Just a Closer Walk with Thee”
and find the harmony an octave low.
Whenever we play this one at home,
my wife begins to bop around the kitchen
saying Oh, my! It’s enough
to make a Baptist dance!
I don’t dance, but I do sing here
in the early morning light,
body swaying on one and three,
clapping on the back beat
and grinning from ear to ear.
How could I not laugh like a child,
finding myself, as we all are,
in His circus, and knowing
that The Clown is in the tent?