May Pork Skillet

I looked out across the yard, across the idling locomotives, over the top of industry, past the green line of urban flora, past the steeple, up the hill, into the sky and watched the last light shift off without incident. I paced and sipped a post supper coffee, looked back toward the door imagining a dog waiting to leave and a girl on the couch – all the experience mingling with fictions and odd timings. It sometimes feels like that, like waiting. I paced more. The word from the kennel was the usual changes, the boss overworked, the puppies grown and ready to leave the nest, the cock on the attack, the bees and insects festooning the early nectar, the river soft with Heron. The day had gone well, I gave what I could in lecture and moved out. I listened to students, they listened back. I saw the dull media confusion of television dreams and gave alternatives. Now, at the studio, I was filled with a warm contentment, happy that the prior day’s traumas were over and looked to recent correspondence for news. What’s next? People reveal themselves in all sorts of ways, what they want, what they find, who they love, what hurts in the space between. I find myself empathizing with all of it. Finality is a poor choice most of the time. Then I felt the restlessness creeping in so I wailed on my ax until the damn thing was covered in it.