Canine Crossing
Waiting at a stop-light,
I watch in amazement as a dog
crosses the street within the designated lines.
When he turns to face traffic I see the fright
in his eyes, the long flat tail sailing behind.
This is no dog, but an ancestor who was attracted
to the town’s bright lights and belatedly realized
that here are the very dangers he’s been warned about.
Just as I grasp that this is not someone’s lost pet,
he reaches the curb and is loping up the darkened street
away from me, hoping to reach home
before he is spotted by another member of the pack
and his transgression reported.
COUNTRY COUSINS
I never see them, but what parties
they must have in my basement.
Cracked acorns in baskets,
sunflower seeds on the floor,
and tucked into the toe of my discarded red shoes,
a fistful of sugar cubes,
put aside for the next get-together
with their city cousins.
They never invite me.
Friday Night Lights
When the sun goes down,
we slip into scratchy wool uniforms,
white ‘bucks’ on our feet.
In the more-than-usual disorder of the band room,
students forage for instruments, packets of music, and lyres
like women at a lingerie sale table,
then parade out onto the empty green field
to loud cheers from the bleachers.
Out of confusion comes order.
Row upon row, straight as if following a chalk line,
each person lifts his (or her) left foot,
then the right;
counting, always counting the beats,
the steps,
the formations memorized after long days of drills.
Ostrich plumes on gold-braided hats flutter,
threaten to take flight,
some small successes noted.
The prancing majorette high-steps in front,
leading the way.
When she raises her baton
we lift horns to our lips and play,
mostly marches by John Philip Sousa,
still counting,
always counting,
our feet reliable metronomes.
Step by measured step we move from rows
to assigned positions,
horns wailing in the crystalline air
over the rattle and boom of the drums.
To Peter
When you died, our family shrunk by only one,
but the gap you left felt enormous.
People told me work would be a salve,
but it wasn’t.
I was astonished to discover
that all around me, life went on.
Seasons continued to change.
That maple on Meadow Street pierces my heart when it blooms red.
My throat swells when geese honk their goodbyes.
Buddy’s muzzle finally turned white with age.
You know I’m no Hindu
but you have a nephew, a brown-skinned boy
who’s infused with your spirit. Scary.
I retired and became a poet.
But maybe you know all this.
Waiting at a stop-light,
I watch in amazement as a dog
crosses the street within the designated lines.
When he turns to face traffic I see the fright
in his eyes, the long flat tail sailing behind.
This is no dog, but an ancestor who was attracted
to the town’s bright lights and belatedly realized
that here are the very dangers he’s been warned about.
Just as I grasp that this is not someone’s lost pet,
he reaches the curb and is loping up the darkened street
away from me, hoping to reach home
before he is spotted by another member of the pack
and his transgression reported.
COUNTRY COUSINS
I never see them, but what parties
they must have in my basement.
Cracked acorns in baskets,
sunflower seeds on the floor,
and tucked into the toe of my discarded red shoes,
a fistful of sugar cubes,
put aside for the next get-together
with their city cousins.
They never invite me.
Friday Night Lights
When the sun goes down,
we slip into scratchy wool uniforms,
white ‘bucks’ on our feet.
In the more-than-usual disorder of the band room,
students forage for instruments, packets of music, and lyres
like women at a lingerie sale table,
then parade out onto the empty green field
to loud cheers from the bleachers.
Out of confusion comes order.
Row upon row, straight as if following a chalk line,
each person lifts his (or her) left foot,
then the right;
counting, always counting the beats,
the steps,
the formations memorized after long days of drills.
Ostrich plumes on gold-braided hats flutter,
threaten to take flight,
some small successes noted.
The prancing majorette high-steps in front,
leading the way.
When she raises her baton
we lift horns to our lips and play,
mostly marches by John Philip Sousa,
still counting,
always counting,
our feet reliable metronomes.
Step by measured step we move from rows
to assigned positions,
horns wailing in the crystalline air
over the rattle and boom of the drums.
To Peter
When you died, our family shrunk by only one,
but the gap you left felt enormous.
People told me work would be a salve,
but it wasn’t.
I was astonished to discover
that all around me, life went on.
Seasons continued to change.
That maple on Meadow Street pierces my heart when it blooms red.
My throat swells when geese honk their goodbyes.
Buddy’s muzzle finally turned white with age.
You know I’m no Hindu
but you have a nephew, a brown-skinned boy
who’s infused with your spirit. Scary.
I retired and became a poet.
But maybe you know all this.
