PASTORAL

Terence Winch

Last week, a large branch of the tree in front
of my next-door neighborís house fell down
after a thunderstorm. I was secretly glad
because we donít like these people
and take pleasure in any misfortune
that may befall them, however slight.
Then sometimes I think theyíre not all that bad,
and I’m sorry for feeling hostile to them.

In the local park there are many dogs, barking and playing.
The dog of an old Italian man attacked my dog
and all hell broke loose. I intend to track down
the old Italian and make him pay for his dog’s deeds.

At the community pool there are many mothers
swimming in the green water under the hot
sun. The mothers are all skinny, but their
husbands are fat, obnoxious, and hairy. The children
are happy. The lifeguards are bored teenagers
with towels wrapped around them. The sound
of their whistles and of the splashing water
and the children yelling and playing fills me with
a feeling of beautiful, primitive awareness.

At the pool, there are no dogs, but enormous
pine trees surround the blue-green water,
all standing at attention, as though
awaiting the birds who will alight
into their welcoming arms.

Fireflies decorate the dark
like Christmas lights on invisible trees.
Obscene seeds hang like erections from the trees.
Crows are everywhere, like shoppers
at a big mark-down. Teenagers mow lawns
to green crew-cut perfection. The retired fireman
next door lights up a Lucky and in that sweet white smell
we go outside and imagine what it is like to think
in a language that doesn’t exist, not realizing that we’re
standing on the soil in which we buried our anxiety.