A Muddled Encounter

A Muddled Encounter

(“May God, who gives you this endurance and encouragement, allow you to live in harmony with each other by following the example of Christ Jesus. Romans 15:5) 

As I was walking, jacket braced against the cold,
I passed a neighbor across the street I seldom see.
I glanced toward him
and then away, when he said something to me.
With my earbuds tuned to a favorite podcast,
I barely heard what he said. Indeed, I could not
decode it.
So I turned my face back to the sun, smiled, and
waved and hoped
it an appropriate response to whatever he said.

The possibility remains that he said nothing at all,
just background noise in my ears. Or he said something
to his pet pug at his feet.
The possibility remains that he asked me a question
and I dismissed it with a wave.

I hope you did not misunderstand me; I hope my response
was appropriate. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow to rearrange
my words into a more palatable stew. Maybe you didn’t even
notice me. Maybe you wished I knew your name.

It was those few moments of a muddled encounter that
stayed with me through the afternoon. It was such a
tiny thing
occupying the front door of my thinking. I always
pet the dogs I pass, and wave at the cars. But I
will never know if my neighbor thought me unsocial,
or noticed me at all.

Like an Autoharp

Like an Autoharp

(“My sheep listen to my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” John 10:27)

It never occurred to me, but I’m sure it happened,
someone recognized the riffs I had written so long ago.
So I recorded an alternate version. Disguised my voice.
Detuned my guitar. Hammered the piano strings like an
autoharp. I dreamed
I was Bob Dylan. I thought I could compose something
like pinball percussion. I tamper with the tempo too often.
I staged a guitar circle like it was 1973.

My lyrics stood the test of time, but rhyming was not my thing.
I sat down to write and rose up to play. And nothing new was
created. My mind runs on synthesized loops, my mind runs
in circles. My mind collects bracelets and trinkets and
turns them into idols.

I hear another voice, in the sky, in the earth, in my flesh,
in cricket clicks and blue jay calls-and-response. If I
ever find a way,
I’ll repay those anonymous composers with a cover
of the song
the Shepherd sings.
I’ll recognize the patterns I have heard all along.

My verses swerve from angel-hair skies to red
eyed
monsters in the night. My themes were never good
enough
for jazz. My fingers swell with age and forget
fretboard playfulness. I’ll try again,
listening to the wind,
remembering the way we used to change keys
in the middle of a measure.