They’re forecasting solar storms again
on or about the 10th of the month
to last several weeks; will disturb normal
communications for everyone on the planet.
There was the total solar eclipse, then the Super-Moon
partial eclipse, then the Pleiades, and the alignment
of so many celestial bodies that we couldn’t count.
We’re baking in September. The zinnias
are six feet tall, the dog has a serious allergy
with tiny red lesions that require antibiotics. What’s left
of grass has turned into Shredded Wheat. The leaves
on the cottonwoods skipped color change and wiggled free
of their petioles, falling to the parched ground like sad feathers.
Mrs. Tillman meets me at the compost to talk
about her near-death experience while visiting her son
in Phoenix. Have you ever had one? she asked.
Only when I got audited by the IRS I said. She told
me every detail, how she stopped breathing and heard
her dead husband tell her that she wasn’t ready.
Go away she said he said. And I did, just like that.
And here I am with fresh coffee grounds to dump
into your compost.
We agreed that the zinnias could win a blue ribbon
at the county fair – the only sign of glorious life –
and that we wouldn’t see each other for the rest of the day.
Too hot she said. Way too hot I agreed.
Tomorrow morning I’ll tell her about the day I leaned
on Yeates’ tombstone at Drumcliff’s church yard
while an Irish couple took some photos of me
with his headstone in the foreground.
The sun peeped through
the December clouds,
but it wasn’t nearly enough
to shake the chill
from my bones.
I guess we’re never satisfied.
John Dorroh likes to travel. He routinely ends up in other peoples’ kitchens sharing culinary tidbits and tall tales. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Hundreds of others have appeared in journals such as River Heron, Feral, Kissing Dynamite, North of Oxford, and Penstrickin. He’s had two poetry chapbooks published and a book of micro-fiction. He lives in Illinois close to St. Louis.