for Frank Wills
In North Augusta, they still recall how,
till the brain tumor took you at fifty-two,
you’d tug your worn jeans, light a candle
in your wireless shack at dusk, and smile that
tolerant smile they call your ‘sweet spirit’
when Bo Trimble would nudge you: “Frank, tell ‘em
‘bout Watergate, how you found the door they
unlocked with tape, and you took down Nixon
and his whole crew.” How you’d look far away
for an eyeblink (maybe seeing yourself
in security-guard suit at twenty-four),
tongue ground snackcake from between your teeth,
then breathe out in half-growl, half-sigh, as you’d
half-whisper, “I ‘uz just doin’ my job.”
Roger Armbrust
September 30, 2000
