Poetry
by
Douglas Crotty
North-Central Florida
From: Sometimes We Drift
Flow
Where do the fish go when we sleep?
Beneath the fresh and brackish waters do they keep?
In the estuaries of St. Louis Bay
alligators come and lay in wait for prey.
In the shallow bayous, they stay.
The White Egrets and Blue Herons do not fear the gators
it seems, as they pass, preoccupied
betaking themselves to their nests for feedings.
The slippery bream do not stop to press their luck
and the mussels do not appear to believe they will come unstuck
from the weathered poles of old piers in which they are
embedded.
I sit, bobbing in my kayak, in the back bay chop
as a seabird invites itself to stop and ride my bow.
I can almost touch the clouds now.
I lean back and balance my paddle on my sunburned thighs
as the wind picks up.
And I close my eyes.
From: Sometimes We Drift
Beyond the Headlines
I could not escape
the peculiar stench
of the garbage
and still-full refrigerators
and molded furniture
and waterlogged sheetrock
coming through
the A/C vent
as I passed
the post Katrina
debris fields
A heavy gull
labored and flapped
against the rain cloud sky
making its snow white wings
flash against the dark
background
like a flying Morris Code
signaling to save us
from our private
Armageddon
Stray Dog
A Spanish looking man
with a puff-eyed face
and tanned rough hands
inside black jean pockets
walked sideways toward me.
I sipped a bottle of spring water
and stared deliberately, yet indifferently
at him,
freezing his intrusive gaze.
He looked up at me,
looked away,
then down;
then, looked up at me
again,
and sat down with his back to me.
What was he worrying about,
or what was he hiding from?
What was he ashamed to admit,
or unwilling to give up
about himself?
He reminded me of a stray dog:
attentive, but distrusting,
unwilling to express
and skeptical about the world
through which he hurriedly wandered,
of each uncertain day.
My tired eyes drooped
as I nodded into my book.
I yawned,
and extended my legs,
then locked my hands, split-fingered,
while stretching my arms out in front of me,
and measured the halfway point
of my layover
by the airport wall clock.
The Spanish looking man
propped a quilted jacket
against the seat back,
preparing, I supposed,
to steal a moment’s peace,
a crumb of comfort.
I watched him
as his head ratcheted downward
in slow motion,
nearer and nearer
his waiting shoulder,
as if it allowed him to rest
from the wolves of torment;
keeping them at bay
to gain some strength
before
another challenge,
soon.