April

April

From the back, I can
scan this room, stacked and layered,
counting the faces and names,
folded and pressed, saved in a notebook for later.

The Pope is not here.

But if he were, he’d probably be sitting in the corner at the upright,
picking out a ballad in a major key, or
slamming out a wild ragtime jam.

Instead of the pope, this little man stands
in the auditorium shell,
elvish, or maybe a fugitive cobbler, one of
Jakob und Wilhelm’s runaways,
tucked carefully
in his jacket of moss and leaves.

He pulls giant pearls—the size of his hand
and gripping a faint pink glow—
from his jacket pocket, rolling
them across the wood and marble, a slow hum.

I stole one.

Rolling down the windows to let in the April night,
I can hear them, calling, calling, as the deer
lope past the interstate, and I plan
to plant that stolen pearl, tonight,
at the lap of the maple overhanging the kitchen.
I plan for the care of the golden outlines,
the open mouths and the eyelids that
I will find in the maple bark
tomorrow morning. And I plan
for a glorious exit.

T.M. Göttl
Brunswick, OH
The Salvation Army