Michael North

The Hummingbird

With its invisible wings
It fans red fuschias,
In a winking iridescense.
It is a working bird,
Fluttering above the soil's grace,
Chiseling in precise patterns
For the last sweet droplet.
It mocks death, in a constant motion,
In any direction it pleases.
Each morning it flogs the porch,
Echoeing a Krupa snare roll, and
Like a God's tireless brushstroke,
It hums near spirits.
Silenced only at night,
It sleeps well, as wanderers do,
In life's moment,
Radiating as a bird of motion,
In thousands of turns,
A needlepoint ship,
Healing in renascent flight.

Charlie's Hand

Cut below all the knuckles,
His hand, gone,
In A Radial Arm Flash.
He always shook my hand;
His labors were his life.
"Customer satisfaction,"
The MBA bosses called it.

In the shop, early, each day,
Drinking our coffee, war stories,
Telling us about the cold roofs
He climbed, no altitude sickness,
Giant castles he built
For the Stoic Howard County Noblemen.

Today, though, his wife
Drove the smokey black Pickup,
And I couldn't stop looking at his hand.
I carried the boards to his truck,
Praying his wife's back didn't give out,
Insisting to help in this new alien world.

His sawed-off hand lying dormant.
Dirty tar stained gauze.
The children, somewhere,
Premiums unpaid,
His hand, bandaged like a dirty Mummy,
Screaming to open the sarcophagus lid.

It's an execution show, slow,
The worst kind,
A louder yell each day,
When another board splits,
His house shrinks,
His wife can't help anymore,
Customer satisfaction,
Meaningless.