MEETING AGAIN AFTER DECADES

Our phones on the tiny table

like decks of cards

are silenced, but they light, they shake.

We know that they’re thinking.

Billions of years

none of the cosmic issues have been settled.

Water’s still seeking its own level,

the planet needs a few more eons

to figure out what it all comes down to.

On the smaller scale, it’s hesitantly spring,

and the server says No problem, back in a few.

Where we want to be is exactly

where we are,

but there's no way to get there

from here.

TRASH PICKER

It's Monday and our trash is out at dawn

when a pickup, one of the really old ones

(from the Forties, maybe?) with the puffy fenders,

like a creature twisted together out of balloons,

wobbles down the block, a little windblown,

looking for stuff that's not as bad as we thought.

That can't be an easy life, though I get the satisfactions.

We’re all still hunter-gatherers, at heart,

and our angle is hmmm what could I use this for

changing a stick or stone or shadow into a tool,

which is not a bit different from making metaphors,

and the free in Free Stuff means, whatever else it means,

free to become something completely different.

 

Yet when he stops and swings his tailgate down

there’s a tiny wildness tightening my chest

as if he were taking irreversibly and forever

every thought I never finished thinking

and all I ever meant to say to every person

I ever gave up on too quickly

or felt too quickly had given up on me.

WHEN YELLOW LEAVES, OR NONE, OR FEW DO HANG…

If life is a year, then this is

November, just about the day

I'm thinking it'll never get cold

and it gets cold; if life is a day,

then now is the darkening, serious

but not quite deep enough to sleep in;

if life is an hour, then I'm near the end

of a story I might or might not

finish in an hour. But life is a minute,

and suddenly looking up

from the page, who can tell

whether it's the middle or end

or beginning of a minute?

Note: “Momentum” first appeared in Harvard Review. “When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang....” is reprinted from For Now (Copper Canyon Press, 2020) and Again,” “Essay on Clouds,” “Theory of Everything,” “Fire Warnings,” and “Sentence” are reprinted from During (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)

John Doe
Poet, Independent Writer
IN CONVERSATION WITH
James Richardson