Fellow Traveler
It is at the moment when I am watching
my cat’s tiny haunches shift from side to side,
as she lines up a jump
from the footboard of my bed
to the top shelf of my closet,
while my brain is observing
that her coat is the brown of a UPS truck,
with an undercoat of UPS uniform,
and that while UPS trucks,
and uniforms,
are ugly,
her coat is very beautiful
(which just shows you how important texture is);
it is at that moment that I realize
she has lived on another planet too,
and that is why she misjudges her jumps.
Because she’s only been here a few years,
and she hasn’t quite got the gravity figured out.
That’s when I recognize the bond between us,
like hearing someone speak English in a restaurant in Malta,
or seeing someone from your cruise ship while wandering in Puerto Vallarta,
or hearing a New Jersey accent at a winery in California.
We recognize that we’re here now, but we’re not all the way here,
because we’re still partly there,
in New Jersey,
or on the cruise ship,
or back on our home planet,
and while it’s very nice here,
maybe,
sometimes,
we still get a little homesick.
Putting Two Feet in Front of the Others
My dog braces his front legs.
He does not want to go forward.
I should understand.
This is my posture every morning
and often into the afternoon.
Forward
is full of unclaimed troubles.
I am not done exploring the past.
In spite of the mess,
it’s safer there.
My father,
shaking with malaria,
hiding in the jungle,
will make it out,
will live another thirty years.
My great-grandmother, leaving college
because the barn burned down back home,
will see her three daughters through college and beyond.
I know this is just a sliver of the truth.
I pull too hard on the leash
and send my dog lurching forward on wooden legs.
It is at the moment when I am watching
my cat’s tiny haunches shift from side to side,
as she lines up a jump
from the footboard of my bed
to the top shelf of my closet,
while my brain is observing
that her coat is the brown of a UPS truck,
with an undercoat of UPS uniform,
and that while UPS trucks,
and uniforms,
are ugly,
her coat is very beautiful
(which just shows you how important texture is);
it is at that moment that I realize
she has lived on another planet too,
and that is why she misjudges her jumps.
Because she’s only been here a few years,
and she hasn’t quite got the gravity figured out.
That’s when I recognize the bond between us,
like hearing someone speak English in a restaurant in Malta,
or seeing someone from your cruise ship while wandering in Puerto Vallarta,
or hearing a New Jersey accent at a winery in California.
We recognize that we’re here now, but we’re not all the way here,
because we’re still partly there,
in New Jersey,
or on the cruise ship,
or back on our home planet,
and while it’s very nice here,
maybe,
sometimes,
we still get a little homesick.
Putting Two Feet in Front of the Others
My dog braces his front legs.
He does not want to go forward.
I should understand.
This is my posture every morning
and often into the afternoon.
Forward
is full of unclaimed troubles.
I am not done exploring the past.
In spite of the mess,
it’s safer there.
My father,
shaking with malaria,
hiding in the jungle,
will make it out,
will live another thirty years.
My great-grandmother, leaving college
because the barn burned down back home,
will see her three daughters through college and beyond.
I know this is just a sliver of the truth.
I pull too hard on the leash
and send my dog lurching forward on wooden legs.
