His Own Clock Ticking

Expecting snow. Expecting rain. Expecting spring.
Expecting soup. Expecting carrots. Expecting beans.
Expecting love. Expecting death. Expecting wings.

His Own Clock Ticking

A human aware of his own clock ticking,
I give you the weather — as it relates to my own,
which, having just bathed, is moist and warm
and promising sun — a day begun
precisely so, is all that matters,
and must not be
ignored.

How dull — a man nigh sixty
at a keyboard eight years old, printed, black,
dusty, punctuation-worn.

Yet see how he comes to the door
with no shirt on, answers well the bell
before it’s rung.

Hello — he clears his throat — hello? —
takes special notice of the hair upon his arm,
suddenly recalls the water in the ditch
in the sun on the farm — his childhood,
of course — you might have it
for your own — go ahead,
take it, put it on.

Naked-born, such a short while ago —
could there be anything as long
as the interval between a doctor’s spank
(yes, he too is gone) and the crossing
of the floor?

Yes — perhaps this poem.

Come in, come in, he cries, we’ve been
expecting you! — and who should return his wave
but the aching day in bloom — petal-fall, glad you called,
oh, how good it is to be a faithful note
in such a simple, sacred tune.

Recently Banned Literature, May 16, 2016

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