December 2020
Jeff Burt
jeff-burt@sbcglobal.net
Bio Note: : I live in a rural area without sidewalks and a creek nearby and some footbridges that cross over, some new and girded with metal cables, some old and worn and flimsy that teeter to and fro. Those are the fun ones.

The Gift of Flight

A footbridge is not a bird and yet
the leaning right and left
as I walk across seems like diversions
the air might bring to wings,
a flutter of the heart when I shake
midway from nest to landing place.
A footbridge is not a bird and yet
I look down upon a gorge
and trees a hundred feet below
might beckon, and a jostle of the ropes,
a sway that lifts the balance from the feet,
and like a kingfisher, I start to rattle, sing.

At Thirteen I Pictured My Father

I wanted other men to call him boot licker, 
piss and vinegar, skirt-chaser, sot, 
crazy, menace, hairball, brute,
beater, liar, sloth, paprika, pepper,
cumin, ginger, cinnamon, 
anything but salt of the earth,
not good, not funny, not loving, not kind.  

I wanted fault, sin, dereliction, 
legends of bad behavior, renegade, spit, 
delinquency, rot. What I got
was solid citizen, that granite-piked
block chiseled by good behavior,
charity, amiable wit. No chaos,
no wayward walk, fall off the wagon Joe,
secrets whispered behind doors of the garage,
not the real deal Dad, but the bumper 
of shiny chrome and the fender to rebellion.
The world loved him. And I did too.
Originally published in Agave
©2020 Jeff Burt
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