Poem of the Week

Morning mule I am

of established routines ―

rising at 4:21,

beating eggs for breakfast,

inhaling coffee while

reading the morning paper (75¢ an issue),

feeding my Jack Russell in his $10 bowl,

kissing my wife on the cheek before I leave ―

priceless.

In my Jetta by 5:23,

I will listen to jazz while traveling to work.

Arriving by 5:55, I will answer e-mails,

grade papers, plan my classes,

initiate students to English mysteries.

space

But this morning,

where the road curves left by the motor court,

a mule stands idly on the road,

perhaps pondering his new-found freedom.

Perhaps wallowing in his mud flat,

he has always wondered what it was like

to not be confined by electrified wires.

The asphalt of West Metzler Road

feels so much more certain under his hooves.

space

After swerving around this unexpected brother,

I encounter a second mule

who, lost in thought twenty feet behind,

is as surprised as I am

when my bumper taps his left flank.

Until now, he had stood there, all sixteen hands,

dressed in a chestnut overcoat with burnt cuffs and mane,

dreaming perhaps of the arrival of spring meadows

lush with alfalfa and Queen Anne’s lace,

dreaming of working once again with his brothers,

his feet feeling the winter-hardened earth

pull up and turn soft

under the plow he tows behind.