|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The parent birds must build a nest on the brick cliffs of our chimney stack three hundred yards from the promenade; and the first we’ll know of it will be when two pompoms of grey fluff land on the half roof overlooked by the photocopier and the fax machine.
And though the mother gull will dive at us, squawking every time she sees us dart from car to office door, we’ll watch as spring warms into summer and the fledglings sleep and peck and flap their way into adulthood, growing sleek grey feathers, discarding the fluff of their infant lives.
Eyeing us through the glass, impatiently they’ll pace the five square yards of roof, measuring by hops and runs and wingspans, readying for take-off. Then some fine morning, we’ll arrive to find one not asleep but huddled, less, trying again and again to shake his fractious feathers into place; and again. All day
while the fax machine bleeps and the photocopier hums away we’ll watch from our side of the window one eye on the clock, knowing that at five we'll pull down the blinds, switch off the photocopier and leave the office, avoiding the eye of the waiting mother bird.
And if you should go back to stand out there alone salt soaked to the bone
call me then: don’t speak, just let my tongue taste salt when I lick the phone.
I lie awake. You curl towards me sound asleep, half of two spoons. I move a hand but can’t reach you find only sheet, the place my hips should fill. I twist and groan and grip the bed until your sleeping knees caress the back of mine with knobbly tenderness. The space between us is still warm.
speaks without a drawl. He can’t lasso his verses in — no flick of wrist no quick tug at the line — even when they stray beyond his range. Nor does he write love poems lonesome round the campfire late at night.
During his long hours in the saddle inspiration never keeps him company; and after public readings to a rowdy saloon audience of gambling men and good time gals, he don’t collect no spurs.
No, sir. The cowboy poet lays it on the line strictly for cash. He never writes free verse but wants a large down-payment for materials; then doesn’t show or take your calls for weeks. When finally he swaggers in, he squats down on one heel, pencil in hand, writes half a haiku, words and messed up pages strewn around. He needs tea by the mug-full, and eats your last Hob Nob; moseys out to take a leak then says he’s low on couplets, but reckons he might know where he can get some cheap. He heads off west, into the sonnet that is sunset, promising to be back Friday at the latest … or next week, to finish off the job.
|
|
©
of
all poems featured on this site remains with the
poet |
