He
He is attended by rainstorms
He has eyes like painted stones
He writes novels in his head
Composed exclusively at daybreak
He studies the tomatoes in the backyard
He tries to write one line a day
He calls home the chickens to roost
Their eggs gleaming
Like young moons the next morning
He is startled by sportscoats
He always wears purple
A cloud of ambergris surrounds him
He plays the stock market
He avoids doctors, dentists
He is concerned about the aluminum content
In your deodorant
He practices zazen, eyes open
He prefers Italian reds
Sangiovese, Montepulciano
He’d give it all up
(Whatever that is)
For a simple life
He trains the peregrine falcon
Dreaming, he assembles the impossible architecture
He wakes to find a bachelor’s apartment
He asks why did so many great poets
Work in insurance
Ted Kooser, Wallace Stevens
How could you underwrite the risk
Of a life spent madly writing poems?
He doesn’t mind the passive voice
He knows the secret vocabulary
He’s forgotten his training in Latin
He applies the fabric softener
To the heavy metal t-shirt
He’s coming along
©2023 Corbin Buff All rights reserved.
Corbin Buff is a freelance writer living in western Montana. His poetry has appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Verse-Virtual, After Hours, and elsewhere.