Elocutionary
When I get out of my bachelor’s bed,
often it’s hours before I speak to anyone,
voice cracking even then from under-use.
Sometimes I forget proprieties
overnight, and dread speaking too candidly—
“Maybe that’s why your daughter doesn’t call.”
“Yours is the only unmown lawn in town.”
The sun passes above, voice acquires
resonance with the hours, and civility reclaims
precedence in social interaction—
“I’m certain you’ll be hearing from her again.”
“I love the dandelions on your lawn.”
Passing Showers
Just now I drove into, as quickly out of,
a downpour—convergence
of heading and anomalous weather.
In my childhood, the sun shone obstinately:
I lived outdoors. Adolescence
seemed endless drizzle—I kept to my room,
no one missed me. Later,
clouds broke and I realized I was an adult.
The inclement marriage at least produced
a rainbow—
which might reassure
the next person caught outside in showers
with no umbrella.
Would I have dared talk to Don in his bed
about passing showers,
as his hospice nurse sat at the kitchen table?
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. A seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee, his work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.
Sparks of Calliope 