Jeffrey Howard
An Aging Poet Considers an Alternative Occupation
He glides each morning toward washed-out light
Sifting through the dormer. Robins splash in a birdbath
Of carved granite, mere feet from the caged Romas
He received as starts from a former lover.
Through the lane of his mind knifes
The image, the crack of the gun, the pool’s
Shattered glass. His body torpedoes
Like an Arctic puffin.
To improve his backstroke, he trains
Brown eyes on the wooden flamingos
In his garden rows. Their wind-crawling wings
A pink dissuasion to magpies and crows.
After visiting the farmers’ market in the rain,
His ancient arms melt beneath sopping
Sacks of cress, radishes, round sourdough
Smooth as a river boulder, at the brink
Of the Olympic-sized puddle moating
Entry to his front walk. Here in tennis shoes
He takes his first real lap of the day. His second
To transpire later in a claw-footed tub.
A turntable buzzes Hendrix’s “Star-Spangled Banner,”
A wrinkled palm nestles within the wet gray of his chest.
Chlorine and lemon waft off the scoured vanity,
Harmonize with the notes in his pinot noir.
The cool of the bath buoys his ears like dreams.
He will be born once more, not a Keats but a Phelps,
In bold strokes writing his given name in water
Before the breeze spins his ashes to the sky.
—♦—
