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Tribute to the Ohio Arts Community

As a tribute to the artists that the Ohio arts community lost this past year, Kate Fox read a selection from "Traveler Returns," a poem written by her late husband, Bob Fox.

Robert Fox (1943-2005) was a writer and poet who spent his professional life creating a nurturing environment for Ohio’s writers. Bob was born in 1943 in Brooklyn, New York. He graduated from Brooklyn College with a B.A. in English in 1967 and went on to earn an M.A. in English from Ohio University in 1970. He is the founding editor of "Carpenter Press," established in 1973, and the author of six books, most recently "Moving Out, Finding Home," a book of essays, and "Passing," a book of poems. He served as literature program coordinator for the Ohio Arts Council, a position he held for more than 20 years. Bob was also a noted blues guitarist and boogie-woogie pianist and played at various venues throughout the state.

Traveler Returns
          By Bob Fox

This old coonhound
(aptly named as it turned out
for his wanderings)
returns
twelve years after his death.
“I never thought
I’d ever see you again,”
I echo from many times past
when he returned after a week
or two on the ridges and bottoms
of Meigs County, in southeast Ohio,
muddy and rib-ragged, head hung from fatigue
and hunger. He’d eat from his
bowl on the back porch
and sleep for a solid week.

Now his ribs are full
head erect—
his face turns human, tanned,
a man of forty.
I think he’s been vacationing
in Acapulco.
“I’ve been to Mexico,”
he says in Spanish
which I understand perfectly
for the first time. I’m astounded
by the way he seems to have read
my mind as if nothing had changed
between us. I want to hug him,
see if his coat bears the fragrance
of the sand and the sea,
if his breath smells of salsa,
but he’s reserved, not quite
ready to resume our old friendship.

“If you feed me better I’ll stick
around more,” he says, in English
now, though with a Spanish accent.
“Oh?” I say. “What would you like?”
I can’t help anticipating
a menu of enchiladas, guacamole.
I can tell by his eyes
he knows what I’m thinking.
“Kibbled bits is fine,” he says, looking away.
“But with milk. I can get all the water
I want from the creek.”
“I know,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Rice now and then would be good.”
“No problem,” I say. “So far you’re
being easy. What else?”
“Honey,” he says. “Bears adopted me.”
I save my inquiry
into this oddity
for another occasion
and without a hug
once again with the face of a dog
he heads for his house which stands
where it always did
but needs fresh bedding.

I don’t recall
that sun-blinding day in January
when I hauled his stiff body
wrapped in a sheet
tied to my son’s sled
from the barn
to a sunny southwest corner
of the farm
under the boughs of a maple
where under the snow the ground was frozen
more than a foot down.

It’s good to have him back,
it’s good to recover
the missing pieces of one’s life
especially in dark November
when the sky is sluggish
as a wet blanket.
I’d welcome him indoors
to lie at my feet by the cast-iron stove
but he’s already sound asleep.
I wish he’d tell me where he’s been
and know that he won’t.
It doesn’t matter,
I don’t even remember
that I don’t live there
anymore.