The week ended blustery, cold,
damp, gray and the next began

with snow a ways up the pen-
insula. It is Sunday, sun-day,

without sun but fire in as much
as it is Pentecost, euphemistic-

ally known as the birthday of the
church for those who still think

or care about that kind of thing.
He thinks about the weather and

about his mood and about some
things going wrong between him

and some longstanding friends,
perhaps only in his mind, but ass-

uredly there — in the mind and
weighing on his heart. And then

he thinks about Pentecost wor-
ship in the past and overzealous

preachers invoking the flock to
stand and sing Happy Birthday to

themselves to the accompaniment
of a super-smiley organist and

parishioners frantically conjuring
the imagined excitement in that

upper room millennia ago while
shaking hands, giving hugs, kiss-

ing and sharing a multitude of
germs passing the peace of Christ

while it is still flu season and
while he could use some flames

dancing on his head or a little
fire in the belly or under his

fanny or feet, he thinks he will
just sit and wait for the sun.

“Birches are such fragile trees;
my, my, just look at these,”
the master gardener said while
standing on the balcony
looking as if looking for falcons to see.
“We get some red tail hawks not falcons you see,”
I said, “and everyone just gawks and gawks
but back to the birch trees,
if you please.
Is there anything that can be done
about these four?
Can we save even one?”
“You can save three
for now, it seems to me,
but time and global warming
will kill the others,” he said as a warning.
“Global warming is killing the birch trees?”
“Ah, yes, and after that — you and me.”
“Seriously!”
“Oh, and there will be far fewer red
tails in the hawk family,
so gawk and gawk
with your friends and family
while you still can and now
here is my consultation fee;
I have to make hay while hay
is to be made before the end
comes for you and me, ”
he said as he rode away
on a pale horse.

You say he’s not a true conservative
and that may be right, but that’s not
the real reason. He’s not a nice guy,
period, and now he is the standard
bearer for your clan and you’re no fan.
It’s like marrying someone and then
finding out he’s a lout. There were
warning signs, always warning signs,
but you didn’t heed them in time.
Now what? Capitulation, brave face
forward? At least he doesn’t hit you
in the face and you can always wear
long underwear to hide where the
bruises appear. Or…you know what?
Get a divorce; take out a restraining
order, but you won’t and now you’re
stuck; well, good luck.

Every poem I write,
I think is better
than the last one
I did write
and then a few days
later I wonder
if I was
right.
And then
a few more days
later,
I wonder,
“Is this something
I did write?”
and then my
conscience says,
“It’s all right;
it’s time for
another poem
for you to
write
and I’m sure
you’ll get
this one
right,”
and I simply
say in
response,
“Right,”
and I write.

Nine-fifteen in the evening, sitting on the porch
he sees a little red fox silently trotting up the

street; a car comes along and the fox ducks
into a yard and trots on his way to his den

in a dune along the shores of the Big Lake.
Earlier, he watched and listened to one pundit

after another try to make sense of the primary,
and he listened to reports of senseless, arbitrary

violence half a world away scaring everyone
every which way. He chuckles thinking of those

rapidly moving little legs and gives thanks
for the trot of the fox making him think of

Fred Astaire dancing the night away.

When he was five, he flew over the
handlebars, tore his chin on the
bell and scraped his chin in the
cinders in the alley and lay there
for a minute or two.

When he was eight, he swung so high
on the swing that when he wanted to
jump and fly forward he fell backward
onto his head and lay there for a
minute or two.

When he was nine, he stood too close
to the next door neighbor kid as he
swung the bat and got clobbered
upside the head and he just stood
there for a minute or two.

When he was eleven, he ran so fast
at the indoor track at the Y that he
slammed into the wall, tumbled
backward and sat on his can for a
minute or two.

When he was thirteen, he and a
friend played cowboys and Indians
in his basement with BB guns and
his friend kept shooting him in the
face narrowly missing his eyes and
when the shooting stopped he stood
there for a minute or two.

Many, many years went by and when
he was fifty-three, he tried a stunt
on his off-road bike, fell face first
into the dirt narrowly missing crushing
his spine but breaking thirteen bones
and he lay there in the dirt for a
minute or two

before his son and wife took him to
the emergency ward where he spent
three days in intensive care and four
in a regular hospital room before
going home where he slept in the
recliner for two months.

When he was fifty-four, he continued
to downhill ski and off-road bike.

When he was fifty-five, he gave up
off-road biking.

When he was sixty-six, he gave up
downhill skiing.

Now that he is seventy-one, he
puts on his running shoes and
waits a minute or two before
starting a very slow, very safe
trail jog.

After the jog, he stands there
in the middle of nature just
taking it all in for a minute
or two.

Amongst the rubble
of an apartment complex,
half the second floor
room gone, sits a man,
legs crossed in the one
lone chair, his arm hanging
listlessly off the arm of
the green chair against all
the gray wreckage as he
stares at a charcoal scribbled
T.V. on the wall, drawings
of end tables and flower
pots on either side of the
imaginary television.

The bird soared…above, about, across,
against, along, among, around,
at, before, behind, below, beneath,
beside, between, beyond, by, down,
during, except, for, from, in,
inside, into, like, near, of, off,
on, since, to, toward, through,
under, until, up, upon, with,
within…it.

*written after reading a poem by
a poet who had been told by a
writing teacher that the poet didn’t
know how to use prepositions.
I thought she did just fine.
Here’s the link to the poem with comment:
http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/ViewEmail/y/36DA3C56C835B701/79828698057565E0A0F01D70678E0DEE.

She spoke almost dispassionately
of female genital mutilation, which

she had suffered as a seven-year-old,
nipping it in the bud so her mother said.

As he listened and cringed, his week-old,
umbilical hernia surgery ached as it

hadn’t for five days, but he knew hers
was the opposite of his circumcision;

her deep pain was permanent in its
numbness. He felt sick to his stomach.

He wonders as he wanders 
		out under 
	the mushroom cloud 
of a cold war
			turned really hot 

in an ever and always
			anxiety 

of something bad happening 
						
              just around the corner from where 

Gene Kelly dances in the rain and 
			hums a happy tune.