The folks in Cheshire, Ohio
are mostly strangers
as I drive (slowly) through
their small quiet village.
But on an old garage,
a deserted house and a
boarded-up bar,
red-writ letters blare
(along the main drag)
for all to see:
SONNY SMITH IS BALD.

Who is Sonny Smith and
is he really bald?
And who cared enough to
take the time and risk
to proclaim it to the world?

Knowing that my neighbor
is Cheshire-bred, I asked
her about Sonny, and this
is what she said:

“Sonny Smith has a son twenty-six
and yes he really is bald.
He wears a toupee every working day
to his job at the energy plant.
A tiff, and someone got galled.
It was somebody’s wife, a dame–
whatever–enough to defame
Sonny Smith’s name
all up and down Route Seven.”
My friend giggled. “Some folks
don’t like him much.”

I still drive through Cheshire,
and I still drive through slowly.
But now when I see Sonny’s name
I nod as in greeting to red-lettered
Sonny, roue in toupee,
whom I never met and never will and
wouldn’t know if I did.
(Such are our braided lives).

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Back in 1982 we lived in Gallipolis, Ohio, and I drove daily to my place of employment in Pomeroy, Ohio. I had joined a poetry writing group at the French Art Colony in Gallipolis, and as one meeting closed we decided that for our next meeting we would write a poem containing the words “such are our braided lives.”

And so I wrote the above poem and published it in an old Blogspot blog.  Perhaps you can imagine my surprise when, in 2009 I received the following e-mail, to be continued in  my next posting, on this blog.