Come Clara

 

by john clare

Eighty-four and I am not too old to cry
To wake late at night shivering in bed
Hearing those black coal cars passing by
High up on that steep Crumpler mountain.

I dare not wake mamma down the hall
Soon daddy will slip out through the kitchen
before the night shift whistle post siren calls
His Crumpler to Northfork bus line day to begin.

My door creaks and daddy whispers,
Come Clara Jean
I rub the nights tears on the pillow quickly
Forgetting the chilly night of dreaming
For today I get to take fare for daddy!

It matters not to us that mamma will fuss
That's the Dodson in her we easily forgive
only a facade of outer hill born gruff
As she secretly loves our puppies and kitties.

South of the old whistle post is the church
Through the frosted window a tall figure stands
Its the preachers son eight years my younger
Just arrived from outside Welch in Coalwood.

He is so handsome with the wavy black hair
And today he rides the bus over to Bluefield!
I try and compose as I take his script fare
He sits right behind me as glances I steal.

He is not at all like the boys of Crumpler
In those gleaming eyes stirs grander dreams
Beyond the dark shafts to searching for cures
With music in those eyes...how they gleamed!

Did daddy know today little Jerry would ride?
That I would love this young man from that day?
Knowing  he would not always be by my side
That life was more than taking company script pay?

The other night I heard the door creak softly
Come Clara Jean
I could not tell if it was daddy or Jerry
It's been so long and I am always so cold
And even at eighty-four
Tell me I am not still looney for all these tears!

Word arrived yesterday that Gerald Looney passed away
in Woodland Hills, California surrounded by family.
He was merely a boy of seventy-six
A distinguished doctor from John Hopkins and Harvard
While little Jerry found no cure for his cancer
 He found a cure for the shivering tears of
Richard Oranders girl
Clara Jean.