No Ordinary Joe: a Dirge

Half a day before the brew begins,
I heed a need to have the beans counted
And aligned. That is, they must be ground
Like terra firma, keeping steady all the balls
I’ll need to juggle in the morning.
But first, a word from our sponsor: my affliction.
I can’t just count out five scoops, without
Applying algebraic conditions.

The lunchbox refuse from today
must be accepted and afforded due process.
Dirty dishes cleared and left to dry,
With remnants cast aside or thrown outdoors
To serve as scraps for critters
Whom I hear but rarely see.
My daily pills must make their way
To stand on file in allegiance with my health
And well-being. Simply put
But far from simply executed –

Dinner can’t be served until the menu
has been swiped. The first can never be last
Despite the Sermon on the Mount.
Blessed be the counters cleaned,
For they will inherit the mirth
Of crafting supper, or a hearty meal.
Forgive my lack or reverence;
I have no disdain for Caesar’s things,
And only rugged zeal for God’s,
But there’s a third consideration
Holding cards we rarely ever see.

I answer first to Me.

It’s cold and my hands are freezing, this is
The same park we went sledding at last winter,
Except this time there isn’t any snow, but somehow
It’s just as cold, “Let’s go find another park” I suggest.

It’s just that she doesn’t get to see kids much, outside
Of her school friends, and her cousins all the time. But
Kids don’t need to deal with adult stuff the same way
I don’t want to. In this way I’m OK being “not enough”.

Because when is the last time you saw yourself
Coatless, with hair (like hers), and basking in the
Freedom of the outside, even though this
Particular park was literally a police car and fire truck.

“Lets go find another park where there are kids,”
But now she seems upset and sad, or angry
“That’s not what I meant,” I don’t know what I did.
Then she speaks up,

                        “I don’t need kids—

—I just need my Dad.”

From where does
age
continue to swing
when branches begin to end in
wind wonder that
kept us along
the arc that we knew if we jumped we’d have to land with our feet
now covered in the
bark, we
saw by those who taught us
we could fly.
“You’ll be fine”
Love is the eyes in
truths tell. Love is the lies.

A banjo clock hangs lonely now
In hallways near the laundry room
Where no one ever needs to know
The ruthlessness of quiet time.
The metronome was always wound
But not the ringing, singing chime.
They both have lost their mental edge
And now hang old, and more forlorn.
The enemy, the pendulum,
Has lost its spring, but keeps the pace.
I like to know it’s hanging there,
And someday I will seek repair.

The antique land I’ve traveled through
Is buried in a present past.
A balding head confesses time
Has won a brisk, but steady race.
I am no Colonel Freeleigh though.
No Time Machine from then to here.
The green, young lad I’ve always been
Has wrinkles all in proper place.
The trunkless legs of stone I’ve seen
Bear no brave, bold inscriptions now.
Sometimes the base is all that’s left.
So, memories must bridge the gaps.

The clock ran for a hundred years.
It harkens halfway back for me.
Aunt Maggie passed it down because
I’d loved to wind the giant key.
My Uncle Bud would hold me up
And keep life steady while I turned.
When their clocks stopped it hit me hard,
Yet I retained what I have learned.
The things of life are not the key.
My memories will outlast life.
It’s not the timepiece I embrace.
It’s all the ticks and tocks inside.

A fishing rod, and fishing, is and are one
Of those things that were supposed to caulk
The seam between us. Hence, we went
(For some reason I distinctly recall Easter)
As you walked (or rode) with me down to the
Park. I played (or would) football upstream where
Every year, and so often, the creek would loose its
Beds and reclaim some plot of land, if only for a moment
Or a week.

Arriving I decided why not take a swing, and try
To cast, I wouldn’t need your eye, or any further
Education as to how a mechanism I have never seen
Would work. It’s fine you push the button and—

That knot was one of the easier ones and while
You took your time, I hopped rail ties to pass mine.
When you called, I arrived, and you assured me I
Would benefit from just a modicum of—alas,
I couldn’t take it, and I tried again, through the sides
Of my eyes to make a cast.

This one took a bit longer so I walked through a gazebo
To a baseball field that hadn’t been for years. The dirt stained
My knees, but that’s expected when men are doing.
You did not agree, and asked me to stay put. I gave a nod,
Then stood and reached again for that goddamn rod.

But this time you resigned, and said “I won’t fix it this time.
You’ve made your reel, now wind it,” How unfair. I cursed
And screamed until the sweat that couldn’t bead yet
On my underarms and forehead boiled over. So you then
Relented and began to wind my reel again.

I walked outside, the backdoor through the play room, (something
Like 1200 square feet, give or take) to the yard I hadn’t
Had in quite a while. A sea of grass (well sort of–let time pass!)
That begged to feel a bobber. I prepared and gave instruction
Then I shuffled back, attempting to avoid a hoo—no not like that.

THAT knot, and its displeasure, the crux of Celtic pride.
And maybe somewhere between the two of us (you being mine
And, with her, I a one), the kernels of our shared wisdom collide;
It’s not enough to only be heroic,
But to try.