Dry January
I.
to be like the box turtle,
constantly contained
in rigid carapace,
opened and closed
at will, always at home.
to be like the lawnmower
run till empty at end of season,
no fuel gelling in brittle lines,
awaiting fresh gas in spring.
head abuzz with black tea and hunger,
sobriety forcing acceptance that
(THIS) really (IS) all there is…
dropped crutches and foresaken
calories leave me crawling along
frigid pavement down to essence:
a good sunset, a safe child, a soft dog.
II.
the yellow blooms of winter jasmine
spill over crumbling retaining wall
as coal cars roll by, full of affliction.
I grub in cold January mud,
tear through English Ivy,
bloodied hands pressing
lemon yellow wire into earth.
“invisible” fence but only if
you bury it, will project subtle
electricity to contain
my precious mutt.
sunlight hits rain drops
glisten on cut end of vine
moving in breeze
flashes of light
like pulsing star.
III.
I’ll be the wind chime inspector
who wanders through dark streets
cataloguing random progressions
and possessing their vibration
but only till the wind dies down.
because poetry is like alcohol
it soothes, it burns, distracts,
brings into focus, a whisper,
a scream, a giggle, an amen.
and next thing I know I’m
leaving the bookstore with
my brown bag of poems,
ready to twist the top off.
James Cochran is a proudly Appalachian writer, transplanted from the soil of Southeastern Ohio to the hilly streets of Charleston, West Virginia. He embraces the practice of mindfulness through writing, and writing through mindfulness, and enjoys listening to the neighbor’s wind chimes.