C. T. Suddeth

On Bull Creek

Charles Suddeth

Lived on a Bull Creek farm when I was small. The Ohio lay at the far end. Oh, those days.

Listen, here, my melon colic baby,

Told you not to gobble all them melons,

Remember what you did this past spring?

You hogged up those green persimmons,

Now you done busted your belly again,

I can hear your guts gurgling from here.

Last April, me and Sam plowed the garden,

Him braying and kicking for all get out,

Planted melon seeds, sunburned my neck,

Twisted my back, weeded all summer,

Picked melons as you tossed stones at squirrels.

I drove grandpappy’s Studebaker pickup,

One headlight shining on the moon,

The other scaring nightcrawlers,

Ran it into a holler, got stuck in the mud,

A farmer’s team, dapple-gray Percherons,

Hauled me out, took my last five bucks,

Ran out of gas, hiked ten miles to town,

Wrenched my ankle, blistered my feet.

I was fixing to tote the melons to town,

Sell them, buy you a shiny red firetruck,

Not tin junk, real cast iron—ladders and all.

Buy your mama a green gingham gown.

I’ll slop the pigs with what’s left of them.

Don’t you puke in the house, even on the porch,

I don’t need to wash you or your britches,

Quit your bawling and stay out of my way,

And keep out of the river until you can swim.

Play in Bull Creek so I can keep an eye on you,

Go scrounge up crawdads for catfish bait,

Careful they don’t nibble your toes,

Give you something to really wail about.