Birds, Trees, Weather

In the end, it doesn’t matter too much what you think.
I guess I’m a jerk, but that’s not a very original thought.
And I just want to sit back and reread Beckett’s translation
of Apollinaire’s poem “Zone”—but really, why wouldn’t I?

I find that I’ve been waking up earlier than usual lately—
each morning, I put on my record of Glenn Gould playing
those last Beethoven piano sonatas, numbers 30, 31, & 32.
It’s a beat up old copy, but I don’t mind the hisses and pops.

Sometimes, I’ll flip through one of these little guidebooks
spread out there on my coffee table—Birds, Trees, Weather.
I don’t think that I retain very much, but it’s not the point.

And I’m scared. If you want the truth of it, I am scared.
I used to blissfully bask in all the noises of those trains
chugging by on the tracks just down the hill from me.
I still enjoy the noises, but now they also frighten me.

I don’t know enough to know if the ball-shaped region
of the universe that comprises all that can be observed
from Earth at present, including space-based telescopes
and any exploratory probes, is shrinking or expanding.

And this scares me. And yet, despite my gross ignorance,
the stars set down just so. I catch myself mumble-singing,
“Sink down…slow chariot.” I pull out my little memo-pad
and I find that I recently started writing out a list for myself.
At the top of the page, “Things to Remember” is underlined.

The rest of the page is blank.

“Jerky” by Scott Silsbe

Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit. He now lives in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. His poems have been collected in four books: Unattended Fire, The River Underneath the City, Muskrat Friday Dinner, and Meet Me Where We Survive. He is also an editor at Low Ghost Press.