They all let him know he is an
intruder. He may have paid for
the place (cash, in fact) seven
years or so ago; he may have
hung the jalapeno Christmas
lights on the small balcony as
soon as he got to the condo in
November to show his holiday
spirit and even put up the
hummingbird feeder (one part
sugar to four parts water) to be
hospitable, but every variety in
these parts and that’s quite a few,
still buzz his head when he goes
out on the balcony to hang his
wet swimsuit. They buzz the
hand that feeds them. Every time,
he ascends and descends the flight
of stairs, the bird in the olive tree,
instead of offering him an olive
branch, warns him with a high-
pitched, loud cry that the bird,
belongs and that he doesn’t.
And that’s the least of it. During
the night, coyotes howl against his
slumbering presence and in the
morning, those coyotes stand on
the hillside staring down their long
snouts disapprovingly at him and his
chocolate lab as he takes out the dog
for the first of three daily constitut-
ionals into coyote country. Javel-
inas snort at him as he jogs by the
shady wash where they retreat
from the afternoon heat and
little scorpions rush down their
home holes in utter disgust at the
sound of his invading footsteps
and sometimes even, like right
now, the ink in his pen balks
and refuses to come out because
the oil from his thumb got be-
tween the ink and the paper. It’s
as if he is being told he is an
intruder in his own poem.
This is so very good … from the heart of man who pays attention to the life and world around him. Some would suggest: get a big stick, or whatever, and show those senseless brutes who’s boss … but it’s the damned pen, that little instrument, and its refusal to work, that reminds us that no matter the size of the stick or the meanness therein, can we ever be anything else but an outsider.