December 2
At The Dodge
I remember so long ago when I would come and sit and listen; soak in the poets and the Consort, sop it all into the sponge that listened and sat. I did not know exactly what they were doing and I didn’t know why I was there, but I went and had a soak. Now so many years hence I am the writer I never knew and I know just what they do because, I do it too!
Write a poem on your foot
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GOOSE
I round this corner nearly every day.
There in the field stand a flock of problems,
Pecking the ground and flopping their wings.
Uniform and regular, the honking and squawking
Is undistinguishable from yesterday.
I ponder and squint, are these the same
Or yet another gaggle making their way
Along the migratory path?
Trouble is feral, skulking the edges of the field
But never sheltering in the yard.
I must leave my hands off
Knowing these are not mine.
The feathers fly and I gather the strays
Acutely aware of the ticklish nature of this.
Awkwardly I face the truth
No matter how much of a perplexity this is to me
Or others, it is only geese.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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