Birds of the Air
Idling in the parking lot
early for another chat
about unwanted options
I turn off the radio
and listen
to the wind howl
as raindrops
obscure my view.
Clinic workers head in
and a single crow silhouetted
against gray morning clouds
struggles in the gusts.
Or perhaps he’s playing,
bounding the windy waves above
a field he doesn’t fret over.
Either way,
don’t ask me
to shake this dread
just because
a bird can’t process
bad news.
Forbidden
I.
The neighbor boys’ yard was
just dirt, not even weeds,
and they were the reason
the nurse picked through
our hair at school.
We were told never to go
in that house but
how could we not?
We got both Zingers in the pack
and a whole bottle of RC
while listening to their mom
moan in some other room
with the same migraine.
II.
We stole a Hustler from behind
the counter of the Arrow Hotel
when the old lady who laughed
all day at a dark TV screen
went upstairs to vacuum rooms
that hadn’t been used in years.
We bartered it back and forth
like addicts promising
just one last time.
Employed with abandon
and confessed with a smile
every Saturday because
even then we knew
Father had no room to talk.
III.
And of course the communion
that looked different,
like actual bread
at our Scout leader’s church
that tempted and twisted
my Catholic stomach
with a thrill of defiance despite
the hell-wrought warning
I got again that morning.
Looking around as if about
to slide another magazine
down my pants,
I popped it in my mouth and
worried for years about
what Jesus would do.
Noah’s Ark
It’s understandable that Noah’s flood
was recorded as covering all the Earth.
When crisis erupts, it becomes your whole world.
For 40 days he and his sons and their nameless wives
bobbed and floated and waited.
Waited for the sun. Waited to hit land.
Waited to hear a little encouragement
from the same voice he swore
told him to do this in the first place.
One daughter-in-law surely said to another
we’ve been on this thing for more than a month
and not a word from his lord. I’ve told Ham
more times than I can count
that his old man is losing it.
Unknown to them, a beachside village
lay just out of sight all this time.
At the mallet and chisel store the regulars
asked the same question about whether
the rain would ever end, and it did
after only three days as the brunt of the storm
went farther south than originally predicted.
The whole town gathered at the water’s edge
to watch the behemoth ease up to their shore.
Those who knew a little something about boats
elbowed each other and marveled out loud
about how many cubits that thing must be.
As Shem shoveled shit over the side,
they also wondered how long that smelly hulk
would obstruct their view.
Shopkeeper’s Son
The last place on my list
was a small bookstore
near the Royal Botanic Garden
where an old copy of Hume’s Dialogues
promised to be the perfect
remembrance of this journey.
It lives up to an imagined
old shop on an old street
with stacks touching the ceiling
on makeshift shelves
with antique cabinets so tightly packed
there’s really only room
for one serious hunter at a time.
In a rickety loft that looks as if
it’s held up by the books themselves,
a young man sits at a cluttered desk
gripped by his phone, switching
to a louder cringier song every 20 seconds.
I extend my phone to show him
the title listed on their own website
and say that I already scoured Philosophy,
Religion, and Scottish Writers.
Without looking up from his playlist
he says you’ll need to come back
when my da is here. He knows
where everything is, and then cuts
to another alienating tune.
Walking back to the hotel I regretted
thanking him as I stepped outside
empty handed and grumbling
about the loss of time.
I packed everyone’s gifts among
a week’s worth of dirty clothes and
double-checked the next day’s flights.
From the Edinburgh Airport I ordered
my souvenir from an online
bookstore back home.
Unmoved
There’s no sunrise today.
Yesterday’s clouds haven’t moved.
I don’t complain with the rest
and try to maintain this routine
though quiet coffee,
a muttered prayer, and
a long walk through town
haven’t brought the change
that book promised.
The little girl is back, playing
in the sand singing something
that doesn’t sound happy
or sad. She sees how we are,
and doesn’t ask why.
Scott McConnaha is a former teacher, editor, and healthcare administrator. He and his wife live in Plymouth, Wis., and have four children and two grandchildren. Scott has master’s degrees in English and theology and an MBA. His work has appeared in Mobius, The Avocet, and Moss Piglet, among other publications.
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