Solomon Cook 1820-1900

Solomon Cook 1820 – 1900 It was a miracle. I entered this wicked world with Mother’s umbilical wrapped around my neck like a noose, Inside a cold cabin made of stone. My mother, A beauty of burden, Chopped the wood And served chicken neck soup on special occasions. My father taught me stories from the Bible And swatted my behind with a strap If I slept in past 6. My eight siblings and me Worked the fields from the rise of Phoebus at dawn To the fall of the day’s eye at twilight, And we barely had enough to eat, Except after the harvest. I taught myself to read at ten years old And as a young man I travelled by steamer as a swabby To Europe, Asia and Africa And I took in the local colors like one of Twain’s tramps. I met many women of questionable reputation In many exotic ports-of-call. But my one true love was my wife of 42 years; My lovely and patient Pearl. By train and stagecoach We came to this quiet Quaker town in 1892, And lived in the white Queen Anne on Olive Street. Pearl and me walked on many a Sunday morning To services at First Christian, Shaped like a cross, And together we smelled the gardenia blossoms In Pastor Crain’s eccentric garden. Why, my Lord, did I have to live so long? Why did I have to watch my wife and friends die before me? And why, my Lord, was it a simple cold That finally stopped my old lived-in heart? And now I am resting in peace at Clark Cemetery Under the sprawling sultan-like fronds; Under the magnificent golden nucleus Of a single desert palm.