Poem: Lip

Lip

Meriwether fences, a taste of

neverbeen to lighten the step.

Jumping horse, pole vault, footstool.

Sad-eyed semaphore in the eye of

the maelstrom. She calls for help,

but never when help can be given.

So much timing swept over the

falls, this antic come-and-go,

inches from the payoff.

Once, a blade of grass that held firm.

A winning putt.

Corporate blimps, television cameras,

men whispering into microphones.

A man in white swings the

pendulum, leftward parabola,

a line he drew in his head.

Smiles.

The blade sees it coming,

white planet, perfectly cratered,

reaches for his cellulose center and

makes himself big.

To the whispering men,

it seems that the ball has

met with an invisible field,

trick of magnetics, dangling on the

edge like a woman about to say yes.

The smile disappears.

The crowd exhales.

The engraver pauses.

Ernesto finishes his coffee,

picks out his finest clippers,

leaves a set of dewborne

prints across the green.

Leaning over the cup, he finds a

chlorophyll cowlick stabbing the white.

Smiles.

Slides it into his wallet.

Has it bronzed, places it on his

mantel, next to the pebble from ’79.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo

Photo by MJV