Smoke from Canada

The fires send their murk south 

to choke our skies. Our neighbors 

must have decided that something 

should be done about us at last.

They’ve always been so polite, 

so patient in the past. I guess 

that we, or I at least, believed 

we had more time for mistakes. 

How silly, in hindsight, to think 

our basket of chances would be 

bottomless. Life never stops.

I cannot help but feel that we, 

or I at least, have lost. Too often 

I miss the point of my own story. 

I’ve never had a talent for plot. 

There’s a long delay, for me, 

between used and used up. Now 

I see. We wake to an empty cup.

It’s been raining for five days 

straight and a golden chill, damp 

and unnatural, settles with the haze. 

A good opening for a great novel, 

setting the mood for intrigue, 

a love triangle. Here is where I excel. 

I can paint for you a start and yet… 

nothing much seems to happen next. 

Just the routines, sir. How I rise 

at the same time every morning, 

drink my coffee down to the dregs, 

and dream of a second pot 

when I walk the dog later.

The danger always comes 

at a quarter after four. The hour 

of surrender. And I can tell, 

even now as a pale sun rises, 

that I am heading for a fall 

when this weird day is over. 

I have unmet needs after all, 

a taste for something warm and 

raw. Either I let out a howl or 

I turn my craving on myself. 

In private, the dutiful son requires 

a peculiar kind of self-expression 

or else he gnaws. I gnaw. I chew 

my way through the furniture.

My desperation turns physical. 

I have been so quiet, so still.

How like a wounded stray I am, 

always backing into a corner 

in slow retreat, licking open sores. 

How simple. How animal. 

Of course I can smell it coming 

from a distance. Of course I know 

that I will belly-up again this evening. 

I have so little resistance since 

the long, slow fade-out of spring. 

It’s only a matter of waiting.

The cycle of lean rain and drought

has left the ground soft, not muddy 

but thirsty enough to soak up 

the odor of a thousand fires. 

Back home they are not so lucky. 

There, the air is a bitch’s brew, 

but here the gloom begins to seem 

normal. Today the earth will wear 

its usual mask of tragedy, and if 

I ever leave the house, I will smile.

John Tessitore has been a teacher, journalist, and biographer, and has directed national policy studies on education and civil justice. His poems have appeared in a variety of books and journals. He has published several volumes of poetry, a novella, and hosts a poetry podcast, Be True.