frogs and the Boston Strangler
I’m at work, at my desk, finishing up a poem
about frogs (Everything in my life ends up
in a poem it’s sad yes I know it is a very
sad thing, but what can you do?)
when one of my fellow-workers sticks
his bald, shiny head into my office and says,
“Hey I heard this great joke
on TV last night about a frog . . .”
Of course I’m stunned by the coincidence
but can’t say anything about it because
nobody at work knows I’m a poet
when I’m not at work,
like the Boston Strangler was
a strangler when he wasn’t driving a cab.
Yesterday the water was cold
and the waves choppy, but I went in anyway,
I went all the way in anyway,
the only one in.
I swam along the shoreline,
half a mile or so, my wife and granddaughter
following along on the beach.
"Wow," her eyes sparkled, "You were like
a triathlete out there." She took
my hand, so proud of me.
So today, the same situation, only with
the water even colder, the waves choppier.
When things calmed down, everyone finished
with their snacks and flying their kites,
I stood from my beach chair,
stretched like a waking bear,
swung my arms around and around
over my head so everyone could see me,
flapped them like Michael Phelps does
before he dives in.
Then I popped in my ear plugs,
strode out solemnly, so bravely, so manly
(the alpha-male on the beach)
through the rocks and seaweed,
cracked shells and snails,
finally diving into the churning frigid sea,
swam out and fought my way
along the craggy shoreline just like yesterday,
only this time nobody even noticed.
Pink Ribbon
I brought her her birthday present,
flew all the way across the country
to give her a belated birthday present.
I'm waiting out on her deck to surprise her.
She finally comes home from work
up the side steps to the deck,
smiling and giggling and chattering
with two of her girlfriends
just like the 13-year old beauty I knew so well.
Her hair is dark and long with a ribbon
holding it back, a pink ribbon.
She's wearing a white sweater.
I'm waiting for her on the deck at the top of the steps.
I thought she would be surprised to see me,
surprised and happy to see me,
waiting there with her present out on her deck.
Suddenly she's quiet,
stops talking with her girlfriends.
She doesn't seem to notice me,
(but I know she does),
doesn't even look at me
as I'm standing there all excited to give her
her present, to see her again after 47 years.
It's as if I don't exist, and in reality, I don't.
She rejected me a long, long time ago
and that's how it still is.
Some things simply do not change with time.
Risk
Truth of this matter was
I was far too frightened
that I'd lose her for good, forever,
if I stayed away, testing to see if she'd miss me.
What if she didn't miss me, what then?
What if after she sent me away
so she could date that other guy,
I stayed away until she missed me enough
to want me back, and she didn't?
What if I didn't come around
for a couple weeks, didn't call her
or write to her and she liked it!
What if she liked her freedom (from me),
like a songbird released from her cage, finally free,
free from me, free to flap her wings
and fly wherever she pleased, away from me,
unimpeded by me, free, forever free?
Where would I be then?
Certainly not here, lying in bed next to her
listening contentedly to her soft sweet snoring
and marveling once again that she married me,
agreed to spend her life with me,
agreed to being my girl till the end.
No, I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk losing her,
that's why I didn't stay away,
why I returned almost the very next day,
coward that I am.
Baptism
In church for our grandchildren's baptism,
an hour, a long, long hour of the Benediction,
the New Testament Lesson, Pastoral Prayer, Offertory,
and the One Voice Choir singing ancient tunes.
I'm reminded of why I don't go
to church anymore -
anachronistic, old-fashioned, out-of-touch
with reality, feeling like I'm back in time to 1860.
But some people love it, feel fulfilled,
so I am happy for them,
wish I could be more simplistic and feel
the same way too, but I can't.
Brief bio:
Michael Estabrook is a baby boomer who began getting his poetry
published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry
chapbooks, his most recent entitled “When the Muse Speaks.” Other
interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to
be the most beautiful woman he has ever known.
No comments:
Post a Comment