RESPECT

Harbinger 100 x 120 x 1.5 cm acrylic on canvas

TUSCAN ORDEAL

Netherlandish neo-pagans come here for

the Madagascar Hoopoe, a striped bird

with an umber head that looks like a helmet, and  

a long thin beak. It doesn’t sing or moan or whistle—

it shrieks as if someone has pissed it off.

The first time I heard one I thought some

Netflix spawned man-eating

creature had crawled up

to the side yard of our rented house:

rows of vines, olive trees flickering from white to pale dusty  

plush green. Then back.  Productive landscape, food factory.

Peasants must think we are nuts to come here

and watch them work. I try to picture leathery

farm hands with big white teeth pulling up in a tour bus

in front of a manufacturing facility, a chip-building campus

clutching meal tickets and smart phones. That’s us, in reverse.

Warm grass blades pricking my bare feet.  Late afternoon

and I’m in pajamas, sipping, I kid you not, a G&T.  Across the street

are three farm workers taking a break beneath a massive cherry tree,

observing a dork in his jammies at five PM. They’re intimidatingly

detached about it all. To add insult, two Madagascar Hoopoes

shriek from a shared tree limb. A blond woman in very short shorts

jogs by.  Doing what workers everywhere would do

each man gives his crotch a subconscious squeeze,

sending signals from his literal lap top. I have another sip.

In five days I’ll be teaching the gerund.

The present perfect progressive.

In five months I’ll know for sure I can’t go on.

This is known as the grammar of small despair.