The poem in my knee can predict rain
coming, but not whether it’s a storm
or steady drizzle. The poem
in my ear hears that train
in the distance long before

it’s near Linden Road. On a warm
spring day, like today, the poem in my eyes
can tell the future. It’s not always right,
but it has its moments. When I’m torn,
conflicted, unable to decide,

the poem in my heart tries
to speak. Its voice is wet and garbled.
Sometimes, I forget it’s there
and go about my business, a simple guy
hoping for more luck than anyone deserves.

And the poem in my skull
is the loudest. It shouts into the night sky
like it’s dying, which it is. Those poems,
bleeding out and beautiful,
are the ones, I admit, I refuse to write. 

The slop of another new year
lies down in the yard,
pale and hungover.
Wet in the arms of the last snow,
the new year
squats in soft, muddy grass,
taking the place
of our three snowmen
who melted, fell, and exist
only as a handful
of white torso
in the rain.

I enter my second half-century
the same way.
As parts of me vanish without warning,
the days feel loaded,
       hours ticking me off.
It’s January and the radio predicts
thunderstorms later tonight.
Maybe the new year will stand up
to the lightning and pouring rain,
shake itself sober,
and claim its rightful seat
next to promise and hope.

Wild Transitions Contents