Seven, Eight, Nine, Carol Ten

Seven, Eight, Nine, and Carol: Ten

–by Rendo 11/16/02

***

Mildred Porter was a baby factory.

She and her husband lived beneath the railroad trestle,

In a small, gray house;

With yellow, sun baked shutters.

Her front yard was a wasteland.

The trestle provided the only shade.

Each afternoon.

Although void of grass or tree,

The lawn of packed coal cinders

Provided the little ones,

With a safe play area away from the road.

And, in the black dust,

They laughed and teased each other

While they awaited a bell to ring,

Calling them to supper.

.

Sometimes,

When I would bicycle myself over to the next town;

I would pass the Porter home.

If I was fortunate enough to pass at mealtime,

I would see the procession of children

Lining up by size.

First,

At the water tub;

Where Carol,

Being the oldest,

Would supervise the cleaning of each pair of hands.

Ears, Faces washed.

Hair Combed.

Next!

Lastly,

Each made his or her way to the back door,

Where they stood their place.

I have always wondered how so many

Could live within such a small dwelling.

How was the table arranged?

Where did they all sleep?

Mildred Porter kept such living arrangements

To herself.

She stood smiling by the back door,

Counting each of the children

As they passed to go inside:

“Seven,

Eight,

Nine,

Carol, Ten!”