Last Conversations

One conversation, one only, remaining: It will be that give-and-take With Larry Littlebird — Oral listener — All about eagles, their shoulders, Ospreys, their plummet, And frogs, their singing Scratched by rain’s soft claws. But any of these exchanges will do: Charlie saying, If you can hum It you can play it, if you can play at all. And if not, sing with closed lips to yourself. Low continuous sound, your refrigerator. You must not be lonely. Harold says someone pointed out Being begins with a hum: It seems what you are, You’re happy hearing it, I’m happy for you, For each other, happy. Hear it in your colloquial throat, The syllable meaning human. Or, if not any of these intercourses, then Jenny and Chloe, who with a shake And a nod and a wave of an arm Toward the East say, We are going And we’ll go on your behalf And we’ll carry signs and shout The last best protest. Cerise and fuchsia Sisters, ears pointing out. Or my street signs: Calaveras (our skull’s tacit mouth) and Eisenhower — War, a theft from those who hunger And are not fed. Not a way of life at all. Crossed words on a corner pole. Movers pack me up, extract me From that conversation. I’ve heard a few words — they stay with me, An earned ear — and yet Too brief for brooding. Ghost Of my father, who never said much But Smell the roses for the camera; Or when I ask,Can I retire? He quickly says,Don’t hesitate! Any of these exchanges will do, “Now is the perfect time.” Not “For what?” but stopping it open. “April Fool,” said my favorite Eleanor, And then she died. “Good night,” her son Tipped his hat at me, From the top of the stairs, and then he tumbled. “I love you,” I contributed. And then I buttoned up.