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Jack Granath is a librarian in Kansas City, Kansas. His poems have appeared in Poetry East, Rattle, and other publications.
That Poetry
for Princess Anna Conda,
Thunderella,
and Snot Rocket.
That poetry
had anything
to do with it
is far from clear,
the rain a more
likely culprit.
I could barely
see the road,
let alone
the other cars
that skimmed it.
I listened to
the wise old poet,
who had taken
up the beat
of my wipers
automatically,
as poets will do,
even though this
one did it from
a radio show.
Now I recalled
disliking her book,
too heavy on
the god words
at times, for my
tormented taste.
Again and again she
told me to live
a simple life,
rejoice in its
daily wonders,
sunlight off of
water and such,
as I scudded by
casinos probably
or Wal-Mart.
The only thing
that I could see
was a greedy patch
of spilled reds
in pools of blue.
I watched it blur,
then felt a racket
of bridge beneath
my wheels, and when
I got there (to
the roller derby),
I fought against
that bugbear, that
sinister, lurking
surge, my blood-tide
synchronized
with the poet’s voice,
I guess, despite
her easy-going
philosophy.
I sat in a sagging
plastic chair
and cheered
for youth and beauty
spinning around
a wooden track
and tried to hold back
weird tears.
That one
about the blue
heron was pretty
damn good.
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