FRANCIS MASAT

The Poetry Of..
Francis Masat.......................................................

Counter Top at Dawn

Rising early,
I enter our kitchen
and meet a basic fear.
"They" have arrived -
I move without thinking.

With a quick slide
of my trigger finger,
I kill again,
as I was taught,
as I have practiced.

With a quick slide
of my trigger finger,
I end an existence
wrought by a million years -
a million years! -

of survival,
of evolution.
I erase another life;
I kill yet another
ant.

The Noblest of Weekend Warriors

For the fourth time she hears, "This line is busy."
"Damn! What else would it be?" she screams at me.
And later she hears,
"The tests will be in later. We'll call you."
That might as well have been taped too!

I say, "It's better than that stupid computer tune
'my-dog-has-fleas' or that goddamn
'If you'd like to make a call ... '."

She looks away, calmer, but not done.
"How could they lose me when they've only got
two phones?! And I'm supposed to stay calm?" she asks.
"Watch the stress," I add in useless tones.

Later, she calls back; connected she hears:
"We won't know anything until Monday. Sorry.
And, yes, you can double up
on the painkiller - that's okay."

She now faces her painful hours with no verdict,
no news, no "You're fine," no "You need to come in,"
- nothing! Just "double up - on the painkiller."

Anxious - nerves raw - she tries to still her hands.
Something moves off center behind her eyes,
and I see her force herself into deep breathes,
a fight to keep adrenaline from loosing its chemical hell.
I close my eyes and breathe and wait with her.

I hear her whisper "There are no flashes! I may be okay!"
More moments pass - she says at last, "I'm okay."
I hear her breathing return to normal. "Whew! I made it
out of the woods again - at least for now," she offers.

As she reaches for the painkiller,
another long weekend battle looms ahead
for this noblest of weekend warriors.

YT and the Fox

Jade green and milky eyes,
..... wide open, as though glued.
Ebony feet under a rust-red body,
white-tipped tail still on the road.
Should we stop to see,
..................................... to know?

But we hurry, as in a trite cliché,
to catch a plane, to grab a car,
to be together at YT's viewing.
......................... I'm sure it's dead.
Small for a fox; a yearling bitch?

Can't take time
..... to move the fox to earth.
But we'll travel days
..... to see YT put to rest,
ebony deep under rust-red earth.

I pray that the fox did not suffer;
..... YT took three months to leave.
Perhaps the fox was luckier -
..................... not knowing and all.

Author's Note: YT's name was Yellow Thunder.

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