I guess I just am as for why exactly who knows? The sky darkens
in the west over Minneapolis as I scan what’s adjacent
looking for an escape I mean clues that there are others hidden
in the multi-dimensional the train with graffiti on it stalled on the tracks
in drizzle after radar-indicated tornado warnings this morning
put some of us (me) off our meditations I mean we’re on a kind
of vacation because life is an avenue leading to what you can only
imagine under a weathered gazebo lunch yesterday was barbecue
chicken and ice cream on an island where clouds were scallops sailing
eastward over a small spring-fed inland lake beside which we ate corn
on the cob drank iced tea Hawkins sipped a mimosa I’m late middle-aged
drinking not drinking because not everyone gets to do everything
one wants the narrative (what narrative?) flows or sinks like sitting
on the bottom of a lake wearing a scuba mask watching the minnows
surround you the silvery subconscious with its buggy little eyes
preventing one from doing one’s usual tasks I can’t proctor a test in lake
water
nor annotate a villanelle nor sprinkle blueberries on a dollop of yogurt
the bulk of my leisure time involves sparkling rainbow trout who
look like balsa wood painted surrealistically or the food on one’s
dinner plate the head still attached half-covered with garnish
the fork in my hand’s not metaphysical eat or be eaten tie flies
in the a.m. bat away mosquitoes in the p.m. Hawkins tosses me
bug dope that smells like a banana no thanks I’m between relationships
but home in time for some real kick-ass weather a gulley washer
I sit inside smiling checking weather radar no trace of ambivalence lights
flickering the last deep dive maybe of summer nobody lives on the island
except a rookery of herons in the spring a 100-foot drop off a rock cliff
a treacherous two track to a deep water pond lanterns and chumming
at midnight for crappie Come with me some June and outlast
the black flies stick around for the cool weather and camaraderie
and nice dinners I knew I was growing stronger by autumn I drove back
east alone passing under an unvariegated wall cloud no texting either
I met somebody new at the gym but all I want to do is recline
in a hammock now with ice on my back a notebook before me
talk to a chow-golden mix who replies with a tail thump the stars
just beginning to show the train stands high on the tracks idling
kind of furious all the mirrored glass you could ever ask for a deer
stamping the dirt highlights of a post-relationship weekend
this goes on for a while the docents of train memorabilia taking
notes too until the machinery begins to rev up again then it’s time
to check Twitter though nothing worth reading’s ever appeared on
Twitter that I can recall yesterday I saw a 3 lb. bullfrog upside down
beside a close-to stagnant creek-shaped ripple its guts spilling
out of its mouth It was resting in a ring of damp sand unself-
consciously cool in its shade hot everywhere else I’m anthropo-
morphizing the dead again what brushes against the deceased
the empathy of stone grass dirt moss under a dead deer in Manistee State
Forest I couldn’t fathom what had befallen the bullfrog the train
fairly roaring on the tracks by now standing stock still I grow more
and more patient with time I really do miss Alice Thanks a lot social media!
now I know she’s in San Diego with someone photographing onion rings
and her own thin fingers I felt bad for that frog so I moved it to a hidden
patch
of sand further air-conditioned by ferns I will also finally find such kindness
someday if I’m lucky in a meadow with clover time I guess to compose
a living will 1. Remove from life support. 2. Place in nature. All done.
not that the frog was so lucky something malevolently having been
at it (how did it spew out its own guts!?) I used a pizza box to gently slide
it under the ferns its underside the pale color of a cabbage stem
its front legs motionless the chubby arms of a newborn baby no reach
David Dodd Lee is the author of thirteen poetry books, including the forthcoming The Bay (Broadstone Books, Fall, 2025) and Dead Zones, the Dictionary Sonnets (Wolfson Press, Summer, 2025). His poems have appeared in Southeast Review, New Ohio Review, Ocean State Review, The Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day, Guesthouse, Copper Nickel, TriQuarterly, The Nation, Willow Springs and elsewhere. He teaches at Indiana University South Bend, where he is Editor-in-Chief of 42 Miles Press, as well as the online literary journal The Glacier.
