Inclusion
Walking the dog this morning,
frost like diamond dust
along the split rails,
drifts of dry grass,
fallen elm leaves,
ten yards between us as we go,
his plume tail
full mast flying,
prancey paws,
sunrise not an hour old,
light flat against the cottonwoods
along the river,
the sky clear, quiet,
except for a mallard
lifting off the pond,
a crow caw breaking from a pine,
wind-roar when we bend
toward home,
he with no thought of eternity,
me hoping it could include
a morning like this.
Fire Season
Mid-May and already
the rattlesnake grass
begins to yellow.
A month from now,
waist high beside the road,
knee high in the forest,
crimson and brown stalks
will move beneath the wind
like waves of wheat.
A month after,
the rattle tips will droop,
stems rustle
in offshore gusts,
and each afternoon
until November
will wait for one kiss,
a single spark,
the tinder chance
to not just ignite,
but flame far
into the inevitable night.
Cashless
In the next to last scene of the movie of my life,
I will stand before a young barista as I am today,
old man, tweed coat, polo shirt and slacks,
listening as she tells me politely that as of today,
the place is cashless. She will offer the news gently,
with brown eyes and olive skin; she will say it
assuredly as though we have shared the secret
of this day’s arrival all her young life;
she will offer it calmly as the cue to a line
I can't remember learning in a role I can’t remember
being cast. She will offer it as a fact, without
embarrassment or apology, and in the seconds
it will take me to process her meaning, the weight
of the first half-dollar I earned will press into my palm,
and the ring of the cash register at Woolworth's
where I spent each allowance will echo in me
like a cavern carrying the crash of the sea.
In those seconds I will see my father again standing
in line for the next available teller at a bank
that no longer exists. I will see his step shortened
by the weight of three jobs a week, the pass
of his paycheck across the counter, the teller's
thumbing of the cash back, and his counting the bills
back to her, a double-check, before folding them
into his wallet like prayers, all this while the hiss
of the steam wand becomes the beat of the soundtrack,
the passing breath of phrases from my life—cash only,
good as cash, cash on the barrelhead, cold hard cash,
cash it in, low on cash—and I reach for my phone,
dropping the app before the scanner as the scene
shifts to a morning sidewalk of commuters,
a street alive with traffic, a city rushing to its own
wounds and hopes under a sky that will be blue by noon
on a day that eventually will end, but not cash out.
George Lober is the author of two books of poetry Shift of Light and A Bridge to There. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and e-zines, including the Homestead Review, Eclectic Literary Forum (ELF); Sage; Quarry West; The Sandhill Review; The Porter Gulch Review, Red Wheelbarrow, and The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets. He is a former winner of both the Spectrum Poetry Prize and the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry. He currently lives in Monterey, California.
Walking the dog this morning,
frost like diamond dust
along the split rails,
drifts of dry grass,
fallen elm leaves,
ten yards between us as we go,
his plume tail
full mast flying,
prancey paws,
sunrise not an hour old,
light flat against the cottonwoods
along the river,
the sky clear, quiet,
except for a mallard
lifting off the pond,
a crow caw breaking from a pine,
wind-roar when we bend
toward home,
he with no thought of eternity,
me hoping it could include
a morning like this.
Fire Season
Mid-May and already
the rattlesnake grass
begins to yellow.
A month from now,
waist high beside the road,
knee high in the forest,
crimson and brown stalks
will move beneath the wind
like waves of wheat.
A month after,
the rattle tips will droop,
stems rustle
in offshore gusts,
and each afternoon
until November
will wait for one kiss,
a single spark,
the tinder chance
to not just ignite,
but flame far
into the inevitable night.
Cashless
In the next to last scene of the movie of my life,
I will stand before a young barista as I am today,
old man, tweed coat, polo shirt and slacks,
listening as she tells me politely that as of today,
the place is cashless. She will offer the news gently,
with brown eyes and olive skin; she will say it
assuredly as though we have shared the secret
of this day’s arrival all her young life;
she will offer it calmly as the cue to a line
I can't remember learning in a role I can’t remember
being cast. She will offer it as a fact, without
embarrassment or apology, and in the seconds
it will take me to process her meaning, the weight
of the first half-dollar I earned will press into my palm,
and the ring of the cash register at Woolworth's
where I spent each allowance will echo in me
like a cavern carrying the crash of the sea.
In those seconds I will see my father again standing
in line for the next available teller at a bank
that no longer exists. I will see his step shortened
by the weight of three jobs a week, the pass
of his paycheck across the counter, the teller's
thumbing of the cash back, and his counting the bills
back to her, a double-check, before folding them
into his wallet like prayers, all this while the hiss
of the steam wand becomes the beat of the soundtrack,
the passing breath of phrases from my life—cash only,
good as cash, cash on the barrelhead, cold hard cash,
cash it in, low on cash—and I reach for my phone,
dropping the app before the scanner as the scene
shifts to a morning sidewalk of commuters,
a street alive with traffic, a city rushing to its own
wounds and hopes under a sky that will be blue by noon
on a day that eventually will end, but not cash out.
George Lober is the author of two books of poetry Shift of Light and A Bridge to There. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and e-zines, including the Homestead Review, Eclectic Literary Forum (ELF); Sage; Quarry West; The Sandhill Review; The Porter Gulch Review, Red Wheelbarrow, and The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets. He is a former winner of both the Spectrum Poetry Prize and the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry. He currently lives in Monterey, California.