Of The Names That The Stone Carried (For Robert O'Connor 1950-1965) Poem by Stephen Bennett The Playjurist

Of The Names That The Stone Carried (For Robert O'Connor 1950-1965)

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A dependence on the rhyming of words and all
the other aural wonders and quirks
that were before the invention
and common use of writing things gave
the primeval storier the mnemonic device
needed to keep a story in memory
and always ready to speak... “the one that was true
wore a robe of blue” Pee Wee knew
the path of the climb up the high straight
stone walls of Granite Rail Quarry.
The painted names by the hand holds
and foot step spots, for him they
literally were a living metaphor for
his life to hang from and lift through
lofty places of rest along the way
up to his name... his place
to jump off. “Joey” was fifteen feet
We guessed. “Louie loves Sheila”
was maybe twenty three. “ Eddie”
over thirty. “Ship” past forty.
And “Pee Wee” was anywhere
close by there with no name
painted. He took off from anywhere
around there. “Maria” was sixty.
“Suicide” more than seventy. Finally
“Roof” also called “Tabletop”,
last stop before the endless sky.
And only one time from there
Pee Wee jumped off.
And I was never thought nor called
“chicken”. The path dropping down
and the break in through the surface
of water and then back up was just his.
After driving the junk trucks until the pollen
in their yard swelled my eyes up, we
always went there; me to watch... him
to jump. Pee Wee moved to South Boston
with his family, stole a car with some kids,
cracked it up, died and I don't know what
he did after that. I think his mom
must have thought I was a good kid
to play with. Moms think they know.
The whole world depends on this
being so. She wouldn't have handled it
then. But in the time she now grieves,
I'd like her to know who he was and how
he taught me to let my bowels move outdoors
and to wipe myself in the leaves.

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