When You Die in Ironton in 1918

When you die in Ironton in 1918,

You don’t linger.

You’re a workingman one day; ten days later you’re dead.

When you die in Ironton on October 23, 1918

You’re twenty-three years, seven months and 16 days old.

When you die in Ironton at twenty-three years, seven months and 16 days

You’ve still got all your teeth,

But, truth be told, sometimes they hurt so bad

You wish you were dead.

When you die in Ironton at twenty-three years, seven months and 16 days

You don’t outlive your passion for your young wife.

You want her everyday, and she wants you.

Even when the baby’s in the bed, you do it quick and quiet.

When you die in Ironton in 1918,

At least you don’t die in a trench in France, your lungs blistered by mustard gas.

You didn’t go to the war, but maybe the war came for you.

When you live and die at Third & McGovney Avenue in Ironton,

There is nothing between you and the Ohio River, nothing between you and Kentucky.

When you die at Third & McGovney Avenue in Ironton,

They bury you in Woodland Cemetery.

You could hit it with a rock from your house.

When you die in Ironton on October 23, 1918,

Your daughter is 9 months and six days old.

When you die in Ironton in 1918,

You run a fever and your head is pounding, you have a rash across your ribs and belly, your teeth chatter, and your joints ache.

Your young wife walks the floor with the baby on her hip, singing Just a Closer Walk With Thee.

When you die in Ironton at Twenty-three years, seven months and 16 days,

In your delirium, you dream you’ve hopped a ride on a freight train.

The wind blowing through the open door of the boxcar relieves your fever.

The baby watches you as you are dying and dreaming of riding the freight train.

When you die in Ironton on October 23, 1918,

The doctor comes to your house ten days in a row,

On the tenth day he writes “typhoid fever” on your death certificate.

At least you don’t have to go back to shoveling coal at the forge.

That damn job put bread on the table,

But truth be told, sometimes it hurts so bad

You wish you were dead.

When you die in Ironton at Twenty-three, seven months and 16 days,

You don’t know that your young wife will be dead within the year,

You don’t know your baby will be an only child, who will have an only child, who will have an only child, who will have an only child.

When you die in Ironton in 1918,

Your sense of time expands infinitely.

It means nothing to you that ninety-six years pass before your grandson takes an interest in you and writes a poem.