Coyote How
By Big Frank Dickinson
The dishes sit in the sink unwashed;
The bed unmade with naked exposed sheets
That sprawl with wrinkled ridges, remnants
Of last night’s battle with rest.
The pile of bones glisten in the rising sun;
The grass bedded down in circularities
That hold the shape of the departed, signs
Of last night’s heavy sleep.
Thoughts piled up preclude thinking
Although the mind keeps busy
Sorting through these like the shuffling
Of papers that could be tossed.
A single thought drives the coyote forward
Into the day with purposeful stride
Sorting through the trail of scents,
All to be tossed, but one.
Unanswered phone calls, e-mails unsent,
Someone’s birthday passed; bills unpaid.
The drafts of journeys long abandoned;
And lists of interests long postponed.
The coyote has one call and he’s answering.
Yesterday is as gone as all previous.
There is only one draft and it is
Being composed of the present interest.
The bed unmade with naked exposed sheets
That sprawl with wrinkled ridges, remnants
Of last night’s battle with rest.
The pile of bones glisten in the rising sun;
The grass bedded down in circularities
That hold the shape of the departed, signs
Of last night’s heavy sleep.
Thoughts piled up preclude thinking
Although the mind keeps busy
Sorting through these like the shuffling
Of papers that could be tossed.
A single thought drives the coyote forward
Into the day with purposeful stride
Sorting through the trail of scents,
All to be tossed, but one.
Unanswered phone calls, e-mails unsent,
Someone’s birthday passed; bills unpaid.
The drafts of journeys long abandoned;
And lists of interests long postponed.
The coyote has one call and he’s answering.
Yesterday is as gone as all previous.
There is only one draft and it is
Being composed of the present interest.
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