By Krikor N. Der Hohannesian
Another dawn on the front stoop
awaiting the ribbon of blue like
no other blue. In the east, Mars and
Venus suspended in indigo. Anticipating
the mockingbird’s symphony —
trills, warbles, long fugues
ushering in the day on cue.
with a cup of coffee and a cigarette
for the morning paper.
for Mr. Bojangles in his baggy pants
and worn out shoes, only he doesn’t
dance . . . he shuffles, shoulders
drooped, hands clenched behind
hunched back, beaky nose dead ahead,
a starved bird scenting for grubs. Eyelids
half-shuttered against despair, a life
of circles folding back on themselves.
Waiting months on end
for a glimmer. And one morning
by God he cocked a wild left eye at me,
his daring uncaged just this once.
Copyright © 2020 by Krikor N. Der Hohannesian.