Last Conversations

           One conversation, one only, remaining:

It will be that give-and-take

With Larry Littlebird — 

Oral listener — 

All about eagles, their shoulders,

Ospreys, their plummet,

And frogs, their singing

Scratched by rain’s soft claws.

           But any of these exchanges will do:

Charlie saying, If you can hum

It you can play it, if you can play at all.

And if not, sing with closed lips to yourself.

Low continuous sound, your refrigerator.

You must not be lonely.

Harold says someone pointed out

Being begins with a hum:

It seems what you are,

You’re happy hearing it, I’m happy for you,

For each other, happy.

Hear it in your colloquial throat,

The syllable meaning human.

           Or, if not any of these intercourses, then

Jenny and Chloe, who with a shake

And a nod and a wave of an arm

Toward the East say, We are going

And we’ll go on your behalf

And we’ll carry signs and shout

The last best protest. Cerise and fuchsia

Sisters, ears pointing out.

           Or my street signs:

Calaveras (our skull’s tacit mouth) and Eisenhower — 

War, a theft from those who hunger

And are not fed. Not a way of life at all.

Crossed words on a corner pole.

Movers pack me up, extract me

From that conversation.

           I’ve heard a few words — they stay with me,

An earned ear — and yet

Too brief for brooding. Ghost

Of my father, who never said much

But Smell the roses for the camera;

Or when I ask, Can I retire?

He quickly says, Don’t hesitate!

Any of these exchanges will do,

“Now is the perfect time.”

Not “For what?” but stopping it open.

“April Fool,” said my favorite Eleanor,

And then she died. “Good night,” her son

Tipped his hat at me,

From the top of the stairs, and then he tumbled.

“I love you,” I contributed.

And then I buttoned up.