Ground Hog Diary

by Al Ortolani                                                                           

Dear Diary…As a rodent,
I am not interested
in sunlight. It bleaches mystery                                                        
from the fencerow, washes out my hope
for surprise. Snow is predicted
tonight, a gray storm crawling
in from the west. Two weeks, six weeks,
what’s the difference?
I will be here with my shadow,
crouched below the roots—
waiting with the wild onion,
the garlic, the tulip
to corkscrew up
from the secret bulb.

Easter Rabbits

by Al Ortolani  

The dog didn’t return that night,
but I knew she would eventually,
the rabbits too fat and easy to resist.
I opened the bedroom window,
watching until the gray dawn bled
across the sky. My daughters slept.
I reinforced the hutch wire
and nailed another 2 x 4 across
the door. Each time I fed them, I had
to use the claw and pry off the scab
two-by. Their turds no longer escaped
to the pile on the ground. Some
stuck between the layers of mesh
and rubbed off on their feet.
They sat in their crock bowls
and spilled their water. They grew
fat and lazy. One developed a goiter
the size of a dog’s nose. Both
sniffed the air, twitched
while they waited
for something coming.

Hail Mary

by Al Ortolani

The sycamore is bone
white in winter, the few
straggling leaves like bats,
wings curled, hanging
loosely against the mottled sky.
The jay in the oak
complains of the gray squirrel,
bending limbs, leaping
like a ghost
to connect the branches.
The blue sky is brief. It separates
the clouds—a flotilla
scudding west. The sun
falls between the shadows
of the house. The sycamore
stretches across the walk—
one boney finger to the door,
one hand open to turn the knob.
We are home, plates in the sink,
the television flickering football.
My uncles are a reflection in the end zone,
the family face, the muscle,
the bone, the game clock
ticking through another Thanksgiving.
Johnny Unitas in black high tops
drops into the pocket
to heave a last-ditch prayer
into the lights.

Jack of All Trades Drives Irene to the Hospital

by Al Ortolani

At midnight, Jack robs the lawn mower
for extra gas, drains the tank, tilts the red can
into the garage light. Wearing

his best flannel shirt for the introduction to come—
he and Irene drive country roads
for fifty miles in the beat up Ford—
past the drag strip, the massage parlor, the state line liquor.
He stops at Chubb’s for water.

They run the garden hose into the radiator
and let it fill. Chubb waves good luck, then
more bean fields, more closed signs—
The streets in Joplin are empty, the traffic lights
down Maiden Lane—blink in syncopated yellow.

Jack pats the hood in the parking lot
at Freeman Hospital—the engine block
seeps oil, pings, smokes as it cools.
Wild geese or ducks, he can’t tell which,
honk towards Shoal Creek in low clouds.

By dawn, nothing
looks the same; the Missouri oaks
drop leaves like messages.
Only change is permanent.

Irene resting, daughter in pink.

He celebrates with pancakes
and an oil change—
daydreams about a new wood stove
and a rick of hot popping hedge.

St. Francis in Perugia

by Al Ortolani

The Burlington Northern
drums through the intersection
in old town—running

night by night,
hour by hour, hefting
freight, hauling coal.

The engineer trombones
the diesel’s passing, calling
to each whistle post

the rhythm of the throttle,
measure by measure,
crossing by crossing—

a horn in the faraway, a
blizzard in the wheels.
Lying feverish in his cell

miles from town, he
recalls the sparrow
in St. Bede’s hall,

darting from storm to
warmth of the fire,
the long tables filled

with food and drink,
music, dance, then
flying out again

through winter’s
door. What lies before
and what lies after

is darkness, a swooping
bird in the storm―

Soul Hook

by Al Ortolani

Pop lies in Room 217; tomorrow

drapes like a curtain between us.

He sleeps with both hands crossed

against his chest. I try not

to believe in omens, but voices

whisper through the hospital, central

air shifting the ceiling tiles,

an escaping soul, spirit rapping.

Once, a hook was fastened to

a dying man's throat, a thin metal finger

curved above the chin, over the mouth,

to catch the soul's

invisible escape, a sudden gasp

of breath, a flattening of lungs.

Nothing is familiar anymore

except the beep and click of monitors.

Pop stirs momentarily, opens

his mouth as if to speak. I slip

a shard of ice onto his tongue,

touch Chapstick to his lips.

Snow Falls in Kansas City

by Al Ortolani

You are sleeping when

the first flakes fall, not rising

until the paperboy swings by

in his squeaking Durango.

You have coffee in the morning,

reading yesterday’s news, drinking in

predictions of more snow.

In the afternoon you wade out

into the gray light. A calmness

descends, drifting

in swooping bales between

shut doors. Your peace, punctuated

only by crows, begins

in the belly, extends even to 87^th Street

where a single taxi churns

to the edge of town.

Three Hundred

after Self-Immolations in Tibet,
International Campaign for Tibet,
www.savetibet.org

by Al Ortolani

Three hundred were taken

away in the night

from the monastery in Ngaba.

Twenty year old Tibetan monk

Phuntsog walked into

the center of the street

and lit his gasoline soaked robes.

Chinese police

beat him with clubs

while he burned. One claimed

they were beating

the flames into submission.

Phuntsog, taken to the

local hospital, was later

kidnapped by a gang of monks

said another official.

His death was duly recorded.

Three hundred were taken

away in the night, whereabouts

unknown.

Sunday Ducks

by Al Ortolani

Three ducks walk the parking lot

at Braum’s Ice Cream. They round

the corner of the exit drive, hugging

the curb to forage asphalt. The drake

scans traffic on Broadway, unconcerned

about his distance from Lakeside.

He is drawn by syrup, sugar cone,

vanilla wafer. He stops, pulls his

yellow feet below his wings

and sits in the traffic lane. The hens

follow, assured by his confidence,

his webbed poise amid blaring

horns and waffle crumbs, strawberry

yogurt spreading like snowmelt.

The Tarantula in Traffic

by Al Ortolani

crawls out of the rocks,

a fist of hair and legs.

He scuttles across the highway

and traffic slows. A woman

holds her hand over her mouth

and steers around him. He

stops on the No Passing line,

a black splotch on yellow.

A truck behind the woman

centers itself over the line and

follows her. The tarantula,

startled by the truck’s shadow,

flinches, pulls its bulbous abdomen

closer to the asphalt. Two

chili cooks emerge from an RV

with a spatula and a skillet.

He rears his front legs.

They pose for photographs

as if ready to flip him

into the skillet. 

The Proper Fish

by Al Ortolani

If she would uncover one breast,
and then lower her nipple
into the fishbowl,

I could be koi.