Poetry
Jelly Jar Ode
Alan Michael Parker
Rain at last,
the cicadas chirr, a siren blats,
and in the wind a sycamore
lifts her gown—woo-hoo!
Even the skunk
smells better, less embarrassed by
the wranglings of a simple soul,
white or black, his either/or.
On the bulletin board that is
the sky, push pins
tack the dark, the night
an office cleaned by God.
*
Is one joy like another?
The traffic cop loves her whistle,
the jelly jar its blueberry jam.
What does the sycamore think
of my human reticence?
Rain at last,
and the rain is
a broom and the room it sweeps,
the light upon me purpling.
Thingness. Facts.
Surfaces contain themselves.
Filled with the rain, I splash away.
*
Jelly jar, my little jelly jar,
left on the lawn for the rain
to shoo a blue wasp
who dips in the dregs of jam,
shudders for the sugar.
Jelly jar, keep to yourself—
if you were to break, nothing.
If I were to break…
In rain at last, I shudder in the sugar.