Poetry |

“Enthusiasts” & “Narrative”

Enthusiasts

 

I admire the basements

of ham radio enthusiasts

with all the knobs and needles

jitterbugging next

to the storage shelves.

I don’t know how

radios work exactly,

but grasp the simple

extending antenna

translating from the atmosphere

a voice shouting, or soothing,

or asking for help,

which is equal parts religious

and eighth grade science class.

And please lord give me

any enthusiast at a too boring dinner.

They understand a simple thing

is never simple and get

all electric about it,

like my beautiful friends

who ignite over words,

who shuffle through the day

like strange kids at recess,

heads down, bending now

and then to place

a moderately interesting rock

into their pockets.

It takes not a small amount

of love to see a thing.

After a long winter

I watched enthusiasm alight

on my wife’s chest.

Or maybe it was always there

and grew gradually

alongside her dahlias

and her Heirloom tomatoes,

which she started in trays

on a bench by the window,

pouring the potting mix

cautiously, and fed from

a copper watering can each day.

Before she left for work

she switched on talk radio

so the wavelengths

could pass through the stalks

and jiggle them strong

with the names of the dead,

and the candidates,

and the stock market crash,

and now she tucks a season

of debate gently into the dirt

so later this summer

she can dress the tomatoes

with a thick slice

of mozzarella, a basil leaf,

balsamic, the awful

politicians speaking

to an empty room,

and our beautiful friends,

our beautifully electric friends

will ignite over this

not simple thing

she has loved

into existence.

 

 

◆     ◆     ◆

 

 

Narrative

 

I’m teaching a unit on narrative structure.

The voyage and return. The tragedy. The rebirth.

There are only so many shapes to choose from.

This is my last month in the profession

because I can’t make the paycheck work.

It’s an old story. A handful of students try

for surprise endings in their first drafts.

Usually, an alarm clock wakes the protagonist.

I won’t tell them the only genre invented

in the 20th century was reality television.

Those shows all became competitions.

The cash prizes were enormous.

Contributor
Keith Leonard

Keith Leonard’s poems have appeared recently in The American Poetry Review, The Believer, New England Review, Poetry, and Ploughshares. He is the author of Ramshackle Ode (Ecco/HarperCollins, 2016).

Posted in Poetry

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