Out Here

Out Here

I said to my shape, “Shape up!”

did three push ups, four knee

bends, five sit ups with toes

locked under the edge of the low

table in front of my Lazy Boy

recliner that holds my books

I hope someday to read.

I even walk down our lane

unless it snows or rains.  Or if

I forget and day wanes into dark.  

It’s not safe then where rumor

has it a cougar was spotted last

week after the neighbor’s poodle

(or was it a pug?) turned up missing

and hasn’t since been seen.

It’s a great life we live out here

in the cottonwoods.  Except in June

when cotton cloaks the land and every

seventeen years incessant cicadas sing.  

Well, it’s not exactly song, more like

a buzz or thrum.  You can tell

the Fahrenheit by counting thrums

for fifteen seconds then adding thirty-seven,

or is it thirty-five?  

You can look it up next time

you Google on the Internet.  

You can even find your long

lost love at Harmony dot com. 

But that’s nothing to me.

My love sleeps snug beside

me or alone when I get up

to shape my shape, or if the sky

is clear enough to write this poem.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        17 January 2012