Things Curly Said

On a sweaty green morning
A long time—decades—ago,
Two young men met on a farm,

Where they’d come as volunteers
To work far away from home,
To travel, if not to earn.

One was from Scotland and tall,
One a short American.
They made a Mutt and Jeff team,

Tall Curly and the wee one.
Curly hid all emotion
But often quipped clipped remarks.

The wee one was a talker
Overspilling with feeling
While covertly listening.

Whatever Curly noted
Of people or politics,
Of beauty or hot weather,

The wee one would remember.
A year they worked and traveled
Together, and then exchanged

Stays in each other’s homelands,
Cost-free accommodations
With each other’s families.

Then back to school and careers
And what became adulthood,
More or less, as each found it.

A baker’s dozen years on,
Their paths recrossed in Glasgow.
They met in a pub they’d liked.

When Curly saw the wee one,
He greeted him by saying,
“Haven’t grown any, have yeh?”