George Towne 1847 - 1899

George W. Towne 1847 – 1899 From Iowa I came by restless wagon train. From the mid-west I arrived With satchel and silken scalp still intact. I read Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to pass the time. I read the Gospels of John and Luke. I read Harriet Beecher Stowe and I read John Greenleaf Whittier. I saw the icy Rocky Mountains beckon me to the west Waving their invisible fluid fingers Like blond ballerinas in silent ever-moving tableaux. I saw the railroad snake through the endless golden valleys. And I saw the muddy roads converge Under a hundred bee-infested pepper trees. And it was here in this new colony I found a home For my wife Fannie and our three dubious children. You could always spot me in the distance, Walking down Pickering Street. For I was the dapper one in black derby hat Taking the cash in the Greenleaf Avenue millinery. I was the suited one in dusty black, Winking and bowing to the lovely ladies Showing my respect but imagining something else Deep within my empty searching soul. I was the tall, cleanly shaven erudite Who had memorized the entire Gospel of John And walked the northern foothills at sunset Wearing my ever-present derby hat And meeting, yes, Secretly meeting Lucy Swain Under the tall cedar tree on Rideout Ranch. Confession is indeed good for the soul. Confession has always allowed a good but dishonest man to sleep soundly. To sleep long languorous hours on a cold winter’s night. To sleep for an eternity without guilt or regrets Under the hardened forgotten dirt of Clark Cemetery. For I was the handsome one in derby hat And only Lucy and I knew, Only she and I knew intimately About the patch of soft carpet-like grass, There under the tall silent cedar tree On Rideout Ranch.