https://www.albany.edu/offcourse
http://offcourse.org
ISSN 1556-4975
Published by Ricardo and Isabel Nirenberg since 1998
Lizards are my latest loss,
old news more than new,
permanent yet evanescent,
like the dashes in Dickinson.
I like similes. The little clink
made when like or as link
the unlike makes me want
to smile. The chain of being
grows. Metaphors are stronger.
Word-cells in mid-mitosis.
Green comets. A leash of lithe
neurons in the corpus callosum.
Enough about me. Lizards
love my large screened porch.
The sun-warmed deck of pine.
A view that’s wide and narrow.
This morning, I emptied the bluebird box.
I’d been meaning to for a month.
Nest upon abandoned nest
had filled it to the top.
When you watch
the sun come up, and
hear the trees begin to sing,
your head fills with thoughts.
I didn’t empty the bluebird box, but
I thought about it. Not far from the house,
doves wondered in their hollow way.
Crows cawed and wheeled about,
like a trail of crumbs
taking wing.
If I am granted reincarnation,
I hope my uncalloused soles
will slip easily into that pair
of Nike Air sneakers suspended
by tied laces from the power
line above the elementary
school I attended with Homer
three thousand years ago.
Rain or shine, I will keep
all twelve eyes trained
on the children racing wildly
about the playground,
until the last thread of the great
story breaks, and I reenter
the cycle of unbecoming
and becoming again.
If the wheel lifts the sodden
fabric of my being from the gutter,
I want to hop into a Google
Street View Car that swerves to
a stop beside my barefoot shade,
splashing it with darkness.
Hey, Buddy. Need a Lift?
Rebirth will follow in the Cloud.
If the gurus in throat mikes
and black t-shirts say
that feature’s not available,
wait for version 20.23,
return me, unknown power,
to the hero who shared
my soul when I was a boy,
who could spin the lariat
of the world’s latitudes
with ease, scale peaks
that made the Matterhorn
look like a dry hangnail,
and race faster than a speeding
locomotive to save Helen,
bound to the railroad tracks,
before he even tied his sneakers.
Author Bill Rector is a retired physician who lives in South Carolina. He has published several chapbooks and one full-length collection of poetry.