-airmail-

an introduction to a commission

so it’s been about two weeks since this happened:

I opened the side door to check on the day's mail.

It’s an old, small rectangular metal box with a lid

which has a narrow slot for the delivery of
the standard monthly bills, letters, greeting-cards and the like.

for larger items, the lid lifts to accommodate.

but the slot, like I’ve said, is narrow and the lid

opens, but slightly which causes problems when

fetching magazines, shopping-mall fliers, and the always

amusing shoutouts from local dealerships who

want to buy my car and can give me the deal of a lifetime.

as my hand digs in, my old friend Alan Johnson walks up the road.

––he knows I write things down.

he wants me to write something about his father

who died when Alan was three years old.

he’d like me to write something about a man

he never knew, nor loved and didn’t remember.
with my hand stuffed inside the narrow mailbox and nearly
held there without consent, I began the age-old struggle
confronting artists of all stations, which is
to proffer excuses, no matter how ridiculous, to avoid
committing to perform such requests.

"A band of criminals stole my MacBook and I can't do anything without my MacBook."

"For christsake, Alan. I’m going to croak soon enough myself"!

but then –– but then,

Alan (Chico) Johnson, once a young Bedford Street compatriot

through our time in the 50s into the early 60s tells me:

“He was killed aboard his Destroyer in World War Two by a Kamikaze”.

so the poem dedicated to "fighting" Al Johnson is nearing completion.

-the red-coated fox-

approaching the east-facing window into the backyard

at the tree-line, and there’s the red-coated fox.

the fox is on the trot from north to south

with the river behind her glistening under early skies,

her long, narrow snout erect and observant, occasionally

swiveling to starboard where I stand, with the black,

short-haired cat watching at the window.

the fox seems to enjoy the dew-cooled, green-coated
lay of the land and the river as I do on early morning walks,

but the fox is not alone in the community she's made for herself.

westward, the new neighbors have three adult Great Danes

with the population of joggers and small-dog walkers

of Gardners Neck Road protected from them by a hastily erected

pole-wired fence.

they’ll bark at anything or anyone crossing their line-of-sight, but

the Great Danes don't indicate an immediate physical threat to passersby.
they seem content to simply bark their preference to be recognized.
but no more than a nudge of their powerful heads would be enough to push

the wire-wall down.
In that event, it's every neighborhood Bichon Frise for itself.

across the road further westward, the young mother and female child
walk to the end of the driveway waiting for the school bus.

the Great Danes bark at the sight of them.

the young mother is intensely concerned, but

the female child is intensely curious.

stopping for the pick-up, the kids in the school bus are intrigued,

feeling safe within their cadmium yellow sheetmetal cocoon.

at the south-side window I can see them

pointing toward the barking Danes from the port-
side windows of the school-bus.

when the bus moves on, the female child goes with it.

the mother walks up the driveway and into her house.

the Great Danes shut-up during the brief pause at their fence.

(quickly, but with common sense interior caution)

I've moved to the east-facing window where

the fox has stopped trotting, sensing the sudden

silence of the Danes, but the cat's active, trying to

prioritize the views of the drama playing out before her:

red-coated fox to the east-northeast

or three Great Danes to the south by east

or mother and child to the south by west
or school bus by the nub of its hood due south

where intermittent cadmium yellow lines assist

on a heading toward the Bay.