the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain

the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root

the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan

genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all

no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food

mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition

each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish

asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,

"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"

and she, burst out loud in laughter

<•>

blustery company/unexpected costs

rain-all-day, with a heavy creme topping of
blustery wind window rattling, par excellence,
making the houses's insides rumble so much,
the trees fringes bang-pleading to please be allowed in
so loud that you suspect some are already hiding within,
probably, more likely, those leprechaun Elusives,
up to their usual no goofy good

the poet's fellow summer travelers visit, Canadian geese,
clustering by the Adirondacks thrones four,  
who add another weathering to their grayed, somber,
thoughtful demeanor this day,
all in the Poet's Nook, which though forlorn,
surrounded sounded by sixteen! chubby flyers, admirers,
(their ranks expanded from fourteen of yesteryear),
asking where is the poet-boy, and the chairs explain that his
standing in the rain days are now past his prime,
inspiring modalities, so rest easy in the knowing geese lore that,

he,

through those famous civilizing lace curtains,
see-through visors, of  embroidered, embedded flowers,
the poet boy is watching your brood, not being rude,
just dry inside, contemplating their admirable
weather resistance, and writing of them with loyal affection,
his gaggle of friends, **** avians, favorite weekend guests,
not requiring feeding, cleaning up after, or their laundry done

delighted, they edge closer to him, where he, residing/semi-hiding,
in the sunroom where he writes and contemplates the
unexpected costs of human life
that he tries to pays forward so others may never have such a chore

coming ever closer, now nibbling next to the empty
tree swing, used by neighboring kids and in secret,
their parents,
and the wet freshly cut, delivered green grass,
a feast for them, beneath the oak tree

do they have unexpected costs as well, or do they know
all their predators and threats, that may yet diminish the happy sojourning, the tourney of flying south, and its trials/tribulations?

too long, too long I know, the poem,
but to the devil with you
inexperienced, impatient multi-taskers, this, a poem~moment
that would be dishonored by the breech,
needs lengthy fulfillment for the unexpected costs,  
the randomness of events that can't be guarded against,
demand never ending vigilance, and endless imagining

and the geese, saddened by his absence and his travailing
thought patterns, explain, that this is why we geese,
we gaggle travel, why our long necks swoon and swivel,
ever wary of the unexpected surprise dangers,
why we post guards forward and aft,
not to be taken unawares by foxes or men

the human's gaggle is their random, undisciplined,
by their solitary nature,
travailing thoughts
which they they foolish believe they can master,
but cannot, which then, is why, we geese,
we will always annual come to covenant, co-tenant,
visit the poet-boy in his nook, and rest him briefly, from the
terror of unexpected costs, be his inspiration,
for the poets nook, now, by custom,
our refuge, and his, as well, and better together...

little remains
of my grandfather's house:
raw rafters, warped planks with hints
my uncle invested in paint

the windows all gone, time
and twisters took them, and much
of the roof--what is left of that sags,
a silent submission to gravity

a woodstove survives, cold
to the touch, with no memory
of the fire it once birthed, the precious
prairie timber which fed it

now it knows only mourning
doves' song; winged squatters
unperturbed by my presence, as if
they know I lay no claim to now

the old boards have stories
I will never hear: the birth of babes,
reading the Word by kerosene lamps,
the last breaths of men

the songbirds may know,
but they woo the living in flight--a
future of nesting and fertile eggs; they
owe no belated dirge to long lost kin