PIN OAK

The tree man came to do tree work.
You should cut down that dead pin oak, he said.
Why? I said.
It’s dead. It could fall in the first big storm, he said.
How long has it been dead? I said.
Hard to say. When did it leaf out last? he said.
I’m not sure. Two or three years ago maybe, I said.
You should get rid of it, he said.
What’s the proper period of mourning for a dead pin oak? I said.
I never heard of a proper period of mourning for a tree, he said.
Me neither, but I’m starting it. Four years for a pin oak, I said.

*

MIRROR

I saw an old mirror
at the side of the road
to be picked up with
the trash. I stopped to
look at myself in it,
but it was very old and
cracked and missing
most of the silver backing,
so it was more of a window
than a mirror, a window
looking out at a wall
looking back at me.
I should have taken it home.
It’s the perfect mirror for
me, old man that I am.

*

CANCER

My friend, Yvonne, is a poet.
She has cancer, so she’s been
writing “cancer poems.” They
are very, very good poems.
They have been published in
The Hudson Review and JAMA.
Congratulations, I said. Please
don’t say that. I wish I didn’t
have to write them, she said.
I understand, but you do, and
you did because you must,
I said. Still, I wish it weren’t such
a must when there is so much
else to write about, she said.
You do write about so much else,
I said. Yes, but it all smells of chemo,
she said. Even the roses, even them.

*

BARREN ROAD

I have a friend who lives
on Barren Road. It’s a
shame he’s not a poet.
“It’s a shame you’re not
a poet,” I said. “Why’s
that?” he said. “Because
you live on Barren Road,”
I said. “So that’s why it’s
a shame I’m not a poet?”
he said. “Yeah. Consider
the irony,” I said. “I do.
I’ve been considering it
all the time since it really
was barren,” he said. “I’m
surprised at you. This is
the first time you said it’s
a shame I’m not a poet.
Well, I think it’s a shame
you are. A damn shame.
What a waste of a mind,”
he said. I understand.
He’s a sociologist.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 38 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.