after Mary Oliver
Since you asked, Mary, I’m sitting in traffic
nowhere near the swan or the grasshopper
waiting for the light to change, cold December rain
splattering the windshield, wipers beating like the heart
of the doe that comes to you in the forest, eyelashes
flickering over a tender leaf, and yes,
my life is wild, like yours, if the breathless excitement
of my idling in a silver Honda Accord EX
with leather seats and 2.4 liter engine
can be compared to your lying in tall grass
while contemplating migrating clouds and waiting
for a gray owl with a valentine-shaped face
to swoop down like darkest death to remind you
your life is precious. Ah, but you asked me
what I plan
to do with my life, and I have described
a mere moment. What I plan is
a thrilling day at the office where
my laptop will open
its one wing and pull me
into its black pond where icons
float like lily pads and wait to be nibbled
by a mouse. My office phone will crouch
to the side, a silent bear sunning itself
in the blaze of a long fluorescent tube
until I reach for its one black claw. That
is what I plan.
And before I go further,
you should know that I planned to be
a pilot, an astronaut, an admiral,
to learn Spanish, win the lottery, run
for Congress, but all those fragile parchments
were rolled up
and put back into their tubes long ago, leaving me
with the wild and precious idea that tonight, Mary,
I plan to finish your book.
First appeared in Iodine Poetry Journal
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 