It’s a sterile garden and he
lies like a fishpond, still
water, and the virus swims.
Doctors are cats looking in,
pondering the pounce,
pondering the reflection.
We phone in morning
glories to the critical floor.
Each bloom believes its
story in some symmetrical,
hothouse way.
Will they find this poem,
years from now, when the cure
is common as clover,
and try to understand the stun
of randomness?
Random John Fox, who survived
a drunk driver going the wrong
way on 83, and got a shiny
new car in the deal,
who built Pride II when random
seas took The Pride of Baltimore out
of diplomacy’s service.
Diplomat John tendered a
treaty between his
child and the breakfast cupboard,
morning and morning again.
Gentle pool, John Fox would sail
around the table or the globe—
if the morning would just
wake him and say—
Today is the day.
First published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.
Califragile founding editor Wren Tuatha is pursuing her MFA at Goddard College. Her first collection is Thistle and Brilliant (FLP). Her poetry has appeared in The Cafe Review, Canary, Sierra Nevada Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Lavender Review, and others. Wren and partner author/activist C.T. Butler herd rescue goats in the Camp Fire burn zone of California.
califragile.org 