Today's poem is by Bob Hicok

Aubade with whales

Kyle spiffed stiffs
for their big moment, I liked watching him
do practical things: cut a board,
learn Spanish, shoot up.

The story on his face
was that his testicles
were being softly kissed
by God.

He took mile-deep breaths
so I thought of him
as a whale as I think
of this gray sky
perfect for hangovers
as a whale.

The electrochemical experience
of the thought
warms my brain
while robins
crank the starter of the day.

You are a whale,
gray sky of southwest Virginia.

Your turn to tell me what I am.

Isn't that the way forward: taking turns?

Saying of the past, it's ground glass
fed to a dog, it's a painting
of wind?

Kyle has a son.

In three westcoast hours, they'll wake
and stand outside
if it's nice, he paints cars now,
not dead faces,
has a boat, a few beers.

I should have tried harder
to be a bird
in the womb.

That would have surprised my mother.

Pleasantly, I think,
to see wings
rising from her crotch, to feel a beak
on her nipple.

I worry that the anchor
of bird shadows
will catch, that I have nothing
to offer.

But where are my manners:
good morning
stubbornness, good morning
metaphor, good morning having no clue.

Copyright © 2009 Bob Hicok All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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