The Ballad of the Prop Bag

The empty trash bins lay strewn across the front lawn. 

A sign that things were gone. Had gone. Wrong. Terribly wrong. 

The neighbour bringing in her bins didn’t sense it. The gone. 

The gone was hers alone. To figure out. At eight years old.

She’d later tell the story of that time: her father, often talking about

People out of the ordinary. Anyone out of the ordinary, his ordinary.

Often women. He’d describe an encounter, or creative project he’d read in 

His morning paper. Then, he’d roll his eyes up, declare ”What a wingnut!” 

They’d laugh, she said, us four kids, six years apart, at the dinner table. 

Quiet, listening. Never too boisterous. Not allowed. She learned to hide 

her messy, her school projects, the plays she wrote, casting classmates,

staging, props, rehearsals in the gym instead of math. A teacher who encouraged her.

Couldn’t let them know. A wingnut living under their roof. Stealthy

In the evening, green garbage bag in hand, she’d gather up her props:

A hammer for the builder, a dustpan for the maid, one time her mom’s 

Overcoat to make the detective - more detectivey. 

At night, she’d slip her loaded prop bag into the garage, tucked behind the trash.

Safe to grab, unnoticed, on her way to school in the morning.

Her father, up at six and always gone by seven, she could yell goodbye to her 

Mother, busy in the kitchen, and be gone at eight - out the back door.

That morning, hearing the crunch and grumble of garbage trucks 

Rolling down the street she reached for her bag of props. Not there. 

Flicked on the light. Gone. Running out to the driveway, she saw 

The two trash cans, splayed out empty on the lawn.

Her panic rose as she headed to school, but so did her plan, concocting

As eight year olds do. She'd stay quiet. There was nothing she knew.

For years they searched, but never did find: that hammer, that dustpan,

that coat. Her secret kept safe, along with stories she wrote.

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NaPoWriMo prompt: And now for our daily prompt. This one is inspired by Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s poem “Song.” Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song or ballad. One way into this prompt may be to use it to retell a family tragedy or story, or to retell a crime or tragic event that occurred in your hometown.

From The Wingnut Museum, Berkley California