by ANDY ROBERTS
Windy and warm for November,
low-lying clouds sliding over a shy sun as I
fall under that old trance of moving my bones
in rhythm called walking. A bowl of
Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup
when I get home, salty and warm with
rye crackers and sharp cheddar cheese.
It’s been over twenty four hours since I’ve
checked my email, a personal record.
Tonight I hope to sight the Aurora Borealis,
visible at a remarkably southern latitude.
I must admit I don’t like the cold, though
I was born in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan,
a fact I was ashamed of all my life
for some unfathomable reason.
I’ve been waiting three hours for night to arrive,
reading a friend’s book of poems,
and finding them better than expected.
Someone famous once said: The difference
between a good poet and a bad poet is luck.
I’m not sure I agree with the statement
but I see his or her point. What beyond talent
has kept Li Po relevant for 1000 years?
I’m convinced no one I know will be remembered
1000 years from now – provided the planet
still exists in any recognizable form.
Some project the afterlife as literal,
where we will walk beneath redwoods
in temperate weather, amidst impossible ferns.
Others believe we will sit at the right hand of god
on white clouds and sing hymns to his mercy.
I think I’ll let my hair grow down around my shoulders,
flow from the root of my chin
and fuck what anyone says
about my physical and mental decline.
9:00 pm and I step outside to vanished clouds,
a fresh breeze, stars pinpointing an inverted black bowl.
Low on the north horizon a red glow,
then green under a swirl of purple streaks:
shifting, pulsing. I’m dizzy as I stare straight up,
wind’s knife stabbing my eyes shut.
Back inside, I drink Korean rice wine
straight from the bottle.
They’re calling for snow tomorrow,
which seems impossible after this afternoon’s sun.
On a day of my choosing, I’ll go
back to Mount Rainier National Park.
My grandfather climbed its slope freestyle,
and talked about it the rest of his life.
On my only visit forty years,
I experienced such a profound
sense of belonging I cried.
I’ll make the ascent in a blizzard.
Mistaken for a Yeti by my overpowering stench
and matted pelt, I’m shot and killed by a single bullet
through the heart from a ranger’s rifle.
My choice.
–
Andy Roberts is the author of nine collections of poetry. His latest book is My Favorite Failures (Half Inch Press 2025). His work has appeared in American Life In Poetry, Atlanta Review, Caveat Lector, Fulcrum, Illuminations, Lake Effect, The MacGuffin, The Midwest Quarterly, Roanoke Review, and Slipstream. He lives in Columbus, Ohio where he handles finances for disabled veterans.
© Andy Roberts
Halfway Down the Stairs 