 |
| John Clare (1793-1864) |
By Bob Boldt
[Note: As a professional filmmaker for more than half a century, I love juxtaposing images and sounds. I don’t climb tall buildings or hang out of helicopters anymore to capture sounds and images. Now I prefer to use words to make my movies.]
My father found a badger under our garden shed,
with a thick necklace of blood-black ticks
sucking the last life from his mute self.
One sad eye regarded us as if to say, resigned.
No badgers sighted here
beneath my fifth floor
Public Housing Authority
window,
Just an incredibly white-dressed lady
accompanying a little equally white poodle
fairly glowing across the Thanksgiving
empty parking lot in the last evening rays.
The poodle leaves an offering and they
move on, clickety heels on the pavement beyond.
I’m better off by far than the badger.
| Copyright © 2020 by Bob Boldt |
And a sharply delineated short feature movie this poem is, Bob! Complete with mortal irony from within a focused individual perspective. Thank you for it, and for remembrance of Mr. Clare.
ReplyDelete