Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser's *
Flying at Night
.
Pages flip
for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset,
Carp and _Spring Plowing

Envy swells inside him
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures

Like Kooser
he was reared
living rural
among tiger lilies
blooming in meadows,
amid newborn calves
teetering toward first steps,
and around
freshly spread manure
capturing the scent of fall air

His fingers still grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser's work

He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream
his dream
of pages unread.
and pages unwritten.

Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's Flying at Night.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read Sunset, Carp and Spring Plowing
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.

He sat there behind the table,
with his glasses sitting on his nose,
and his skin sitting on his bones - both loosely,
the way you’d expect someone to sit
after 75 years of good, but hard, living.

“The trick is-” he said
deliberately pausing to shift the weight of the sentence
toward the upcoming words
“you have to wipe away all the things you don't want to see."
He said this as he scribbled his name
inside my new copy of his old book
smiling in that gentle old man way.

I scampered away like a schoolboy
feeling like an idiot
having rambled at him
in my best impression of a scholar
- like a kid wearing his dad’s oversized suit.

I talked at him about
how well he captures a moment in poetry
like this former US Poet Laureate
wasn’t aware of his talent
and I was somehow the first
delivering the good news.

As I wander the campus,
having escaped my embarrassment
I think back to a poem he read tonight
about watching an old couple sharing a sandwich.
It was an ode to love,
an image you can see in any sit down restaurant,
literally anywhere in America.
He focused in on this couple,
in this diner
at this moment
apart from time, like a moving still life
forever framed by his words.

He wiped away the screaming kid
and its overwhelmed mother in the booth to the left,
the table of teenagers playing hooky to their right,
and the underpaid twnetysomething waitress
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.

He wiped away all of that distraction
and unearthed this beautiful moment
this pure example of true love-
A sandwich cut from corner to corner
by the shaking hands of a man
whose glasses sit upon his face
and skin upon his bones
all the way you expect a man to
with woman he’s loved for forty years
with whom he shares everything.

I think about the moments I have missed
the poems never writ
because I was staring at the waitress,
who clearly didn’t want to be there anyway.

"In your dream, a moonlight figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table."
- Ted Kooser, Lobocraspis griseifusa

You want to hurl it at the grief-
stricken you, squatting in mirrors,
instead returning to the search for relief.
In your dream, a moonlight figure appears.

Its melody swirls in your tongue,
echoes of the familiar, but no longer adjace-
ent. In your dream, it clung
to your bedside and touched your face.

Hunting grounds exist everywhere for the prize
you search for, but silence flails it's screaming head
as you watch the passing of one thousand mayflies.
I ask if I might share the bread.

Shared stories birth laughter and tear as we nourish
our torn worlds. What we want is stable,
so I promise to contrast the flourish
of your sorrow. You've shown me the table.

Miles of concrete blend with the white sand
The way tan blends into brackish waters
And out into the horizon beyond the Barriers,
Where even the tall pines fade
Into fallen, charred logs.

Across the way, Fort Maurepas
Stands tall, paying tribute to our French ancestors,
Where children race around in circles
And jump in the splash pad,
Their pigtails bouncing, bouncing

So this is the Gulf Coast. A Sunday evening
In early June, pedaling as the sun sets,
Breathing in the salty air, and
Dodging walkers, runners, and other bikers,
Still exchanging small smiles.

Behind ancient live oaks,
Lie artists who have made their mark:
O’Keefe, Ohr, Anderson, and more,
Marked by the three silver pods
Whose every curve shines light for passersby.

You feel like that; you feel like
Stopping and walking instead
To slow down time, like
Dipping your toes in the cool water, like
Dancing carefree with the pods.

You feel like pulling over and running
Down to the end of the pier, where
A couple patiently fish for trout, like
Diving in without warning nor looking back. Instead,
You keep pedaling and admire the calm of the Gulf.