2. Bev suggested we follow the lead of Richard Hugo and go to the old cabin at Camp N-Sid-Sen and imagine a history for it, populate it with feelings, and make it into our reality. I was very happy Bev took charge of this prompt and I wrote a poem that I don't think is done yet, but here it is so far:
For you it’s always November here.
That six-pack in Bovill got you to Harrison,
To this gray bay cold and empty.
The brunette wives stretched and tan on docks
Left months ago.
The smell of cedar left your cabin
Some time back when that judge in Spokane
Killed the clear cut near Benewah Lake.
You moved to Lenore then Greer then on up to Kooskia
Before you said to hell with it
And went to work for old man Konkol
Stacking short loads of white pine on dying trains.
This is not the life you dreamed of:
The dinner triangle unrung for twenty years,
The vacant chairs only the chill wind rocks,
The oil you never bought in Potlatch
For the stubborn door that barely lets you in.
No, you dreamed of a tender wife,
Long nights of Canadian whiskey
George Strait, George Jones
Her fingernail tracing the veins of your wrist,
3. I drove to Kellogg, enjoyed stuffed green peppers with Mom, and rested after a week of being the retreat's visiting writer by watching Nixon/Frost, a movie I enjoyed thoroughly, especially because of the way Frank Langella portrayed the complicated, complex soul of Richard Nixon.