Poetry Daily: Peter Johnson, "The City"

Meanwhile back at the branch, the long-awaited return of the cardinal while two saxophones butt heads in a nearby warehouse.... City, my city! I've spent all day raking leaves from last fall, dodging two yellow jackets that haven't learned how to avoid people. But I have. Even in a neighborhood where prowlers pee in our backyard, or leave behind condoms and Dunkin' Donut bags. Today, I scattered rocks at the base of our fence. At night I opened our bedroom window, waiting to hear a tibia's sweet crack, the "shit, goddamit, shit," from the creep who broke my driver's side window, stealing our Linda Ronstadt CD. Thirty years ago, when he stole Santana Abraxis — the same guy, I swear it — I taped razor blades to the base of my 8-track stereo, one night forgetting the genius of the idea, shredding my calf while mounting a woman I would love but not marry. Meanwhile, somewhere in the country — Simplicity: an old man in his bathroom shaking off his penis for the fifth time, his granddaughter asleep on the back porch, watching stars flame up in a minute-by-minute account of the universe. Somewhere moose and little beasties run wild, while people sleep soundly, deliriously happy to be part of Nature's puny plan. But I'm happy, too, gripping the handle of a pellet gun, crouched half asleep beneath my bedroom window, humming the lyrics to Ronstadt's "Blue Bayou."