RAPPROCHMENT ATTEMPT

The terrier who lives next door
does not like me. He considers
my presence in our backyard

a personal affront. Why? I sometimes
ask him from the safety of my side
of the fence. What have I ever

done to merit such fury?
His answer is given in such filthy
vocabulary I choose not to write

it down. Yes, I say to him, it's true
we disagree about foreign
policy, the solution to the national

debt, and the need for tax reform,
but can't we at least
treat each other with civility?

FIX-IT MAN

I call, tell him about my problem.
"There's this floor lamp that . . ."
He says he'll stop by, take a look.

My efforts at remedy have produced
the usual frustration and mild
cursing that accompany my attempts

to repair all things mechanical.
He arrives, analyzes the situation.
"Maybe I should toss it out,"

I say. "Some things aren't fixable."
He turns his face from the lamp,
gives me a wry grin,

makes a few dextrous twists.
"There," he says. "That should do it."
I plan to vote for him for president.

OUTWITTED

My squirrel-guard bird feeder now
belies its name. For years it worked,
the provender safely ensconced inside
a caged circumference with metal
top and bottom. No longer.

Three weeks ago a mother with aspirations
for her offspring brought her brood
of two along the branch. One of them,
the bolder, squeezed its way through,
to be followed at once by the other.
And there they sat, munching their lunch
inside, their presence a deterrent
to any would-be avian diner.

Yes, I can, and occasionally do,
shout, clap my hands to make them scurry.
For all my irritation, I confess my
admiration for their derring-do,
their persistence. I turn my back
and they return, undaunted. The day
will come, of course, when their
increasing bulk will preclude thievery.
Till then, I'll watch and wait
and marvel, accepting defeat with
as much grace as I can muster.

IN DEFENSE OF EMILY DICKISON (as if she needed my help)

"Tell all the truth but tell it slant"
she wrote, one of her best lines
which, some would say is a permission
slip for obfuscation, manipulation,
"tweaking" the fact, political "spin."

No. It is, instead, the invitation
to you, dear reader, to bring yourself
inside the poem, the story,
where you may discover, uncover,
the particular truth you need
to unshackle you or, at very least,
to give your head and heart
a gentle jolt.

THE PARALYTIC'S FRIEND

Some, a few, are born to command.
I was not. And that day when
he insisted we take him to the Healer,
we obeyed like school children.

Part of it was pity. Ever since his fall
had left him dead neck down,
he'd seemed to shrink, mind and body
both. Always before, he captained
us: let's do this, do that,
the four of us, trailing in his wake,
glad to follow. But dead-limbed,
he turned in on himself. We'd come
to visit, he'd barely say a word.

That changed. News had spread
of lepers cleansed, demons rooted out.
He summoned us, his eyes afire
as before, his voice a clarion:
Take Me to Him! We hoisted him,
his sturdy mat resting on our
shoulders. One of us, I can't
remember who, said: The roof?
We laughed. Ridiculous. Impossible.
Let's Go he said. We stared at him.
We thought he'd joined the joke.
His face was set in stone.
Somehow, God knows how, we got him up.
Looking down, we saw and heard it all.

Walking with him home, we wondered
why we would not let us help. The mat,
we knew well enough, was heavy.

I Want to Carry It Myself, he said.

He did.