Scrid Of Culch

By Robert Allen

The white curtain of snow whipped
up the coast towards Katahdin.

Falling white diamonds propelled
by a howling gale, stung the face,

forced the eyes to close, filled the nostrils,
melted tasteless on the tongue.

From Madawaska to Coburn Gore
to the Portland Head Light,

the roads empty, plows waiting
for visibility to reemerge.

Henry glared out at the blizzard
mumbled, “wicked pissah”,

feeling blizzastrous in his armchair.
He knew this storm wasn’t due

to global warming because
the temperature was near zero.

His poker night, not going to happen.
But wait a second he thought,

what about Zoom poker instead.
The glorious internet his savior?

Then he heard a crash outside so strong,
his house shook, pictures fell

off the bookshelves. Outside
a giant cedar had made his neighbor’s

cabin, its final resting place.
Henry didn’t think much of the couple

who lived there, long-haired, pierced,
tattooed, with two rug rats that ran wild.

He termed them a “scrid of culch”.
Out they poured, like ants fleeing

a burning anthill. Mom and Dad
each had a toddler in tow who clung

to a stuffed animal losing its innards.
The migration headed straight

for Henry’s place. He tried to make
himself invisible but if his truck

was there, they’d figure he was around.
If he opened the door, goodbye to zoom poker

and the peace childless life afforded him.
He couldn’t bring himself to answer,

“Dejame en paz” he prayed.
It wasn’t clear if it was the wind

or the act of a higher power
but the door slid slowly open.

His eyes met those of the huddled
assemblage of human flotsam.

He started stammering about how
he didn’t have room for all of them

His eyes locked on to the little one’s
as her lower lip quivered,

in a moment, deep inside
his self-centered soul

there was a shift, a turn,
he realized he had no choice at all.

Note: A Scrid of Culch is Maine dialect for A Piece of Trash