Calls

Here is a fitting poem for a dreary and somewhat anxious Friday afternoon by my friend the very talented poet Patrick Lucy, all the way from Philly.

CALLS

There was the lawnmower every other Tuesday
and the highway, nearby. In the wind,
when the trees are involved. In their applause.

The unsteady television, late night. The turning
washer, the turning dryer. In almost any piece of music,
music— especially in public. There it is.

No. Just a flute, way buried. In crowded restaurants.
The stall next to mine. The refrigerator’s gruff baritone.
In a Jersey roller coaster pleading the breaks. Hello?

The afternoon chorus of registers. Dragging the vacuum
back across the floor. Somehow, in the silence of hours
rarely visited. Hours that stand like minutes, briefly.

But groggily. And no. The Volvo engine’s cry
for motor oil beneath the speakers’ bark. In the
lower rumblings of airplanes. What?

I swear to god. In the warble of a man
pissing. Several birdcalls have me
reaching into my pocket again.

Patrick Lucy