A dog consistent in
is answered by another,
with briefer, more sporadic yelp.
Let’s say it presents an immediacy,
in verdant contrast to the bright, rooted
flights of the tiger lily.
This neglected co-star, this
Coulda bin a contender.
I vow to lift more weights,
to eat more salads and less ground meat.
To turn my opulent imagination
inside out, hanging gardens
grafted & reborn.
A person of trim lines,
of clean & classic
lights and reins--
Angel or human?
On this day of railroads,
safety checks, Michigan Avenue’s
miraculous window displays—
All this, against a background of ancient music--
deep calm, chur-chur of locusts,
heat and clatter of young birds.
A persistence unspeakable.
Across the median from Wendys drive-up,
a survivor struggles, as her feet incline.
Head bobs, feet flop.
Hands flutter & grope.
They grapple, roping in distances.
lashed, as if jerked by invisible strings—
this, too, must be part of her contention
& progress, to see this through.
Who will arrive to succor her?
“By the gods, no--,” I mutter to the cashier
who hands me my croissant.
“I’d better not wimp today
about my lovelorn lostness, eh?
My precious, woe be gone self.”
“Yep--you got it,” the lady replies.
“Regard that woman walking opposite:
assembling herself in laboring motion.
Mark how she mounts that alpine-invisible hill.”
Copyright © 2005 Jim McCurry