He could fix anything: appliances for his wife, bikes and
hair blowers and fishing reels for children, mowers and
windows for neighbors, cars for his brother, sinks for his
sisters, tile for his club, instruments for the band, washers
and outlets for his mother and her friends, and practically
everything else at the wildlife sanctuary where he worked
with the honorary title "Mr. Fix-It." "Do it yourself," was
not a motto; it was a philosophy; his creed.
One weekend, he broke. Just laid there - broken.
After weeks of tests, they could not find anything broken.
What broke was something he could not even describe.
He had tried over time to keep himself repaired, but for all
his efforts, he finally wore down and broke into curling
inward crying pieces that were buried so deep within him
that no tears worked to the surface. And there was a hard-
set grinding gnaw so deep within his stomach that he knew
that if he could touch it, he would reach beyond his back.
Months later, self-semi-repaired,
a brother's letter reminded him
that despite all that he could fix,
perhaps he could use help
in becoming more repaired.
Weeks later, he replied
that such "help" helped.
He then made a cup of tea,
wrote in his new journal,
and did not fix one damn thing
that day - or the next.
How Do the Birds Know?
where to congregate -
and what to emphasize
merely by their presence?
I'm sure you've noticed
Ravens wait and preen
on the Cemetery wall;
Doves circle as one
over the Amory roof.
Unknown singers chirp
in the side-yard of St. Mary's;
Sparrows search for snacks
up and down Main Street.
Pigeons coo and chat
on the steps of City Hall;
Mocking birds shrill
outside our Public School.
I'm certain that you can find
the prefect bird for all
that happens here
in Midland, Any State, USA.
Staring Too Long
As tired air surrenders heat
from the glaring afternoon,
the remnants of tropical day
are claimed by sultry evening.
Sun-soaked anoles scurry
home to old block fences,
their day spent mating,
eating - and being uneaten.
Sun-loving yellow alders close,
preparing for tomorrow's heat.
Blue Cuban petunias wilt
after only one day's view.
Late breezes slow and are replaced
with gentle wafting drafts of air
carrying scents of old seaweed,
romantic hints of jasmine and spice.
Fender-less high-handled bikes
cruise by in the dusk - silent,
carrying one too-tired body home,
carrying another to work too late.
Shy geckoes crawl, blinking
like tiny cat-eyed dinosaurs,
onto our porch and walls
to hunt and feed all night.
Within the muted evening light,
pale blue-gray shadows stretch
across the road and up the walk
to finally breach my inner window.
