PULPY

well, up later than usual

modest place east of town

8 AM

read my detective novel in hot bath drawn from tank in the attic

heated overnight

cigarette smoke mixing with steam.

on green rusting washing pole

cord long gone to coil in the winter border

sits a white dove lit glowing by the low sun,

looks soft,

no hint

of his noisy oils

in the creamy feathers

he ruffles and smooths again.  long shadow of his beak stretching along his back.

he

is

framed in the window perfectly like

in-laws on the mantelpiece.

well, at the back door i light another cigarette 

i wear a damp towel pulled tight

in the draft.  quiet/ one man mends his shed roof

bent over behind

the bare trees

higher than fences 

hitting nails in threes.

on the bent aerials monochrome magpies impossibly bright against

the heavy grey storm clouds

nod and twitch and pace

smaller birds scattered

lost like seeds till shoots sprout

showing themselves again 

in spring.

well, i'm not in west texas anymore . . . are these birds omens i wonder?

this year’s nearly done with me.  its mistakes and endurance and drool tailing off

like dawn mist on the choppy lakes where the 

small boats creak

waiting.

well, i decide to decide the birds are omens.  why not?

and i stretch out

on the old bench picking at the weathered peel

and

looking at the churches.