One day there was no day.
No birds sang at dawn
because there was no dawn.
We walked our dogs by flashlight.
One day there was no sun.
Through smoky veils
you could stare directly
at a floating tangerine.
One day there was no noon.
Owls hooted. Crickets chirped.
Porch lights never dimmed.
Deer wandered the streets
blinking tears of soot.
If you can’t count on
day following night,
what can you count on?
One day there was no me. No you.
One day we were we.
Scared. Seeking touch.
Please. Hold my hand.
Carpenter of the Milky Way
Tully tells me Watch the sky.
At sunset Mars will conjoin Harvest Moon.
Tully is close witness of celestial construction.
By nature a day sleeper, by night
he works with wood.
Now his spine squeezes nerve. Stenosis.
Surgery could unlock him. Or paralyze.
Tully calls it The risk of a strenuous life.
Walks with a cane. Lubricates
with marijuana for the pain.
Tully practices gentle optimism. A secret Samaritan.
When animals were drowning in the reservoir
while the town bickered, Tully under night sky
drove his truck to the gate, repaired the sagging fence.
Told no one but me. Now I tell you.
He evacuated his cabin when the mountain caught fire,
now lives with daughter and granddaughter
sharing Just So Stories with delight.
He’ll show her Mars and Moon.
After surgery I’ll be turning cartwheels,
he says with a laugh. The joke is,
he’s built them in the past.
Entire carts. Built them by lamp light,
under the burning stars.
Joe Cottonwood repairs homes for money and writes poems for reasons he can’t explain. He lives under redwood trees in La Honda, California dodging wildfires and playing with grandchildren. He is the author of the underground novel Famous Potatoes. His most recent book of poetry is Random Saints.
No birds sang at dawn
because there was no dawn.
We walked our dogs by flashlight.
One day there was no sun.
Through smoky veils
you could stare directly
at a floating tangerine.
One day there was no noon.
Owls hooted. Crickets chirped.
Porch lights never dimmed.
Deer wandered the streets
blinking tears of soot.
If you can’t count on
day following night,
what can you count on?
One day there was no me. No you.
One day we were we.
Scared. Seeking touch.
Please. Hold my hand.
Carpenter of the Milky Way
Tully tells me Watch the sky.
At sunset Mars will conjoin Harvest Moon.
Tully is close witness of celestial construction.
By nature a day sleeper, by night
he works with wood.
Now his spine squeezes nerve. Stenosis.
Surgery could unlock him. Or paralyze.
Tully calls it The risk of a strenuous life.
Walks with a cane. Lubricates
with marijuana for the pain.
Tully practices gentle optimism. A secret Samaritan.
When animals were drowning in the reservoir
while the town bickered, Tully under night sky
drove his truck to the gate, repaired the sagging fence.
Told no one but me. Now I tell you.
He evacuated his cabin when the mountain caught fire,
now lives with daughter and granddaughter
sharing Just So Stories with delight.
He’ll show her Mars and Moon.
After surgery I’ll be turning cartwheels,
he says with a laugh. The joke is,
he’s built them in the past.
Entire carts. Built them by lamp light,
under the burning stars.
Joe Cottonwood repairs homes for money and writes poems for reasons he can’t explain. He lives under redwood trees in La Honda, California dodging wildfires and playing with grandchildren. He is the author of the underground novel Famous Potatoes. His most recent book of poetry is Random Saints.
