even when one isn't
all that bent toward thinking
straight, it all comes together,
congeals, as rain condenses on a
windshield, and all one sees is
the white stuff until he wipes
then the water turns into drops
that buckle, like tears. Today
for the n-teenth time I heard
an old song play inside my head,
and thoughts return of things
I decided long ago not to think...
on my porch, I found the dead
mockingbird, a broken neck. It
must have fought its own reflection
as anger entered into it when it saw
the image of itself in the dingy
window pane. I am a rapt, aging
man now, like Raymond Carver
was when he penned his best poems.
We rise to rank that can't be erased
but it is almost an impossible thing
to earn. Watch-out for windows.
And on most occasions if you'd care
to come, you will almost always
find me keeping the owl's hours.
James King is the author of Wooden Windows (SRLR Press, Austin
Tx 99) and At the Forest Edge (Black Belt Press, 92). He lives
and works in Montgomery Ala, where he teaches theatre arts and
English at Lanier HS.