Uncle Bobby’s Charolais bull, Sam 

was about all he had waiting for him

back in Shubuta, Mississippi 

after the war. Uncle Bobby 

had been a gunner on a B-17–

maybe it was a 25.

Never married.

Never locked his doors.

He was my mother’s brother.

Leaning in a doorway, Uncle Bobby

would finger his pocket watch. 

Big medicine. That’s a sacred item

for a man. Big Shubuta property juju.

He’d lean back and check the time,

holding that watch like he was holding 

onto somebody’s soul. 

His father, Carlton, yeah, 

he killed himself. Had his whole life 

laid out on his desk in front of him.

Had everything typed up. But hand wrote this: 

Make sure Bobby gets my watch.

Then he drove off to a fire station parking lot

and did it with a gun. 

Elizabeth, his wife, was driving home, 

cops passing her on the two-lane highway. 

She pulled up at the house

and fifteen police cars were already there.

But Bobby? 

Died on his old red tractor. 

Massive heart attack. Was supposed to show up 

to town for breakfast. Men came and found him. 

Sitting dead on the tractor.

Watch in his pocket.