An Artist Prepares (for Jack)

Today, I’ve got nothing.  No food
or water for the being
starving in my skin.  I can’t
dig a message out of me.

“Sense memory,” they say.  I can’t.
Got none, got no pathway to that.
“Recollection in tranquillity,” they say.
Not here, not today. So

I’m going outside to eat a wet oak leaf.
Toss myself on the asphalt
and skin my knee, like some kid
getting right with the program, or with God

the way I used to see God; some Hairy
Schoolteacher, some Dusty Wrestler
looking for smackdowns.  Scary Man God!
It used to feel right to have Someone to fight

when it came time to be the One Creating.
Now I have nothing to battle
except my dulling blood and stiffening hands
that want me to think it’s time to hang it up.

So it’s back to the playground and all that.
Back to losing at everything.  Back to being
picked last.  Back to taking a wild swing
at the biggest bully and falling back destroyed.

You know…I know a dying poet who still tells stories better
than anyone I’ve ever known.  I know he’d laugh at me
thinking I’m done.  I know I’d walk away ashamed
if he could hear me whine.  So, you know…

I have to remember how good it feels to fight,
lose, bleed, get up, tell someone about it.
Maybe I’ll call my buddy up and we’ll laugh at me
for a while.  Maybe, for once, I’ll even cry.

(for J. M.)