Never Had a Hip

By Randall A. Wells, Originally for Joseph T. Moskal, M.D.
Version of Dec. 4, 2017, 2017

Never had a hip.

By step or spoke, K to twelve—
Cracking acorns underfoot, dodging puddles,
Zooming on gotta-slide-ice,
On snow, galoshes-printing “I was here.”
Belly vaulting onto hillside sled,
Crouch-and-springing, mask to bat.
Odd jobs meant lunging on a shovel,
Pulling a leaf-clogged rake or hoisting white, wet or dry.
Pushing a mower to college by strips or shrinking perimeters,
Scrubbing for bucks with knees themselves polishing floor.
Those cardboard boxes at the A & P
Didn’t load themselves onto a dolly, twist-rip open,
Purple-price-stamp the goods, and load shelves.
For overnight weeks I hauled pallets on a factory mule-team.

Living across from imagined Morocco,
Sand slanted us waveside hikers
One tilt the first stretch, the other the return gimp
Against our earlier toes intaglio.
A dripping natatorium-pencil marked my 200th half-mile.
Climbing stairs as if painted on flat, I scoffed at Down-buttoners.
Slammed the axe, mounted the roof-ladder and trod the pitched shingles.
Now carry-hugged a child—Dad’s gravida.

Pedals and shoes hit the sub-div circuit,
For twenty years, coast to coast to coast to coast.
The elliptical—Emperor of the Gym—put up high resistance
But always yielded underfoot.
And asena by asena—plank, twist, and tree—still no hip.

Till one day I met this joint by “Ouch.”

Same greeting when left foot reached downward stair fifteen.
New acquaintance then declined to lift grandchild.
“Oil me,” it begged.

Surgeon reported “Bone on bone,”
Buried the late faithful theys of myself,
Packed me with polythylene: “Have fun
At Seventies School, “Don’t jump or run.”




Poem for Julien Vasaune on his Third Birthday, April 2, 2013

By Randall A. Wells

Julien woke and wailed, lost
In darkness. Grandpa carried fear
Outside to calming sunlight crossed
Through space to round and convex mirror.
Toucan with its puppet beak
Tried to grab him by the arm,
Then to give his neck a tweak,
But Grandpa said, “Don’t do him harm!
“Take the end off!” Beaded string,
Tight-plugged, of patience little trace.
Refused, he gave an angry swing
And whacked his brother in the face.
Toddler loves his “pennies” —fakes
From Mommy’s daddy’s dad, now missed,
Coins for games. He guesses, takes
The silver out of Grandpa’s fist.
What’s sticking out of Julien’s ear?
“I hope that penny didn’t hurt!
And look down by your button—queer—
Another pokes out from your shirt!”
He laughed and took a coin and stuck
It in the mouth of back-flip dog,
Then took it out and, shades of Puck,
Replaced it with a leapless frog.
“Say ‘Go,’”—he did, and off it rolled,
The Grandpa-barrow—gravel, grass.
Julien knew the sides to hold,
Heard the leafy footsteps pass.
Goldenrod would brush his hair
As facing backward up the lane
He rode the wheel until where
The fence said “Stop.” Too plain:
The cows were nowhere. “Want to climb
Back out?” Why, sure, and then he spots
The stowaways, the ants, no time
To flee the thumb that makes them blots.
Wait to see a leaf down glide.
He doesn’t catch it, autumn’s clock.
So let’s trundle on another ride:
“Whacha see up there?” “Big rock.”
“That’s so big it’s called a boulder.”
Grandpa couldn’t add “Erratic,
Source unknown and nothing older,
Kept for you in nature’s attic.”
A stop unscheduled: “Look for berries!”
In weedy brown he spies a bunch.
Grandpa comes back with the fairies’
Or the birdies’ orange lunch.
“A moon!” Same finger-pointed words
His dad-borne toddler-mom had said.
But sky was empty save for birds.
Oh, Grandma’s crescent nailed to shed!




My childhood earache:AI

Could it leak from memory

To old eustachians? 


  Pauper Prodigy

Amadeus rots.

             God has a sense of humor,

Cosmic comic, He.


 Mouse-smoke in toaster.

“His eye was on the sparrow,”

His ear missed squeak-screams.



                                  Heard throughout England:

                                  At tit, Forget tit, Guessed tit–    

                                  Enough about tit.





Improved Rhyme

From Pacific to Atlantic,

Gee, the country’s gotten Santic.


Sleigh-born creche from East

Drawn by eight winged angels:

Christmas time’s comin’!