THE LAST OF ALBAN

Alban said he was tired
of being the one who hoed
and the one who dug and the one
who sawed and the one who
took care of the bees.
Alban said he was not so old
he couldn't do something 
else.  He said it was time
Siglund learned to work the farm.
Siglund was spoiled, Alban
said, ever since he hurt his arm.

So Alban sat in the crotch
of a pin-oak, a saw in his lap,
eating the biscuits and cheese I brought
and planning to go to Ashville
where he hadn't been
since Melody Parker
married somebody else.
The next day
he took honey to sell,
said he'd see the insurance man
and drove out the gate with more
in his suitcase than anyone thought.

Siglund says Alban will
come back soon.  Nella says "ha".
And me, Josie, (the one 
he calls orphan), I sneak in his room
and practice my dance
in his mirror - step, point
and glide.  I heard
he left on a train with a girl
from Duluth.  She won't like
the way he has to say everything 
twice.  Good-by, Alban.  
Step, glide
and bow.

			Lucille Murphy