Jump By Manny Grimaldi

    

Nine in the evening. The finch tells me 

it’s safe to breathe now and I feed and water him— 

little chance I’ll sleep ’til morning. Petey darts—eyes black, 

small, bulging—every chirp a question.

Then to the August Yellow Emperor, Corn-Pop.

He awaits truckloads of seed. Tonight I reach into the cage 

to hold him. There’s no one to touch. 

My grief. Children taken for five years. 

I fool myself.

Their psychotherapeutic presentation of self in everyday life. 

Sardines. Armour brand sausages. Tin can soldiers.  

Barrel of monkeys. Public school counseling nightmares. 

The Mother.

No, I set the ball rolling. 

Now, no liquor and drugs to soothe me.

I haven’t been fucked by someone that loved me.

I haven’t loved anyone in my life.

Before she married me I knew this woman.

I wasn’t worth sticking around for.

On my knees I proposed, “I guarantee I will fuck this up.”

That was my idea of being honest, not brutal.

Ten in the evening. Then you. Here’s the chair where you asked

what’s the best record in the collection?

I didn’t know. I was scared to admit it, the album was tainted,

by a gabby woman, on Chicago wind, pepper and egg sandwiches,

and all shades Kentucky weather without notice.

Neville Brothers on the water, her Aaron Neville flirting for hours.

I still miss the songs on that recording. I cry out loud. 

So let’s bury the book of woe in locusts and wild honey pies, play 

my wedding march Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence 

without remembering I tried to call my ex to say this song is now mine.

I am significant, wrangling baked chocolate cakes

Daddy used to make for children now with beef tips, carrots, onions,

and eggs, a family roast at a tea party amidst the scones with dainty china.

Eleven at night, there’s you, and five years landed, 

birds covered in cages, and I’m lying on the pavement crying. 

It’s snowing on December 5th in the middle of the ocean—

nothing that climbs, sparks, or soars takes root, and nothing accumulates here.

Tonight it is with us, we look after the instant.

But before you go, will I eat with you, ride or laugh with you again? 

Feel everything jump anew?

Manny Grimaldi is a writer and editor from Kentucky elaborating verse and rejection notices with well-worn classical hand-tool jokes. Don’t forget to donate at his 800 number, easily reached by dialing 1-800-739-4386. He regularly performs his work at open mics and readings. Manny is the author of Riding Shotgun with the Mothman and EX LIBRIS IOANNES CERVA both available on Kindle (totally recommended for value and portability).