Woof, This Heat

The dentist is now the same

age as me, which is troubling,

mostly because of what I

have and have not done

with my life, emphasized

overhead by the pop

star our age whose music

keeps time as the dentist

shakes his head and laments

the incredible heat. “Woof,”

he says, “this heat,” and I

remember that while I hate

dentists generally, as

a profession (I’m sorry),

I love this one, and want to

keep him close for

observation, the way

it’s possible to love and hate

at once birds or old

country songs—like the one

my daughter and I listened to

one morning on the drive

to school, five minutes, which

affected her so deeply that

her teacher asked

the trouble before she even

crossed the threshold, and

the child, pointing at me,

revealed: “I didn’t like her

music.” What a wonder

that among the worst things

that has ever happened

in her life is Loretta Lynn.

The other day a boy down

the street carried over for

an introduction one of

the ducks he keeps (I like

that phrase, like they

have somewhere else

they need to go). He ferried

the duck through the air

on his forearms and presented

her, announcing, as the duck

entered, her given name:

Bikini. (Sometimes, he

added, called Keen.) Keen

indeed was this bird, who held

so perfectly still to receive

the little child’s rough pets.

Not like me, in the corner

at a party, all flapping and

fluttering hands—this bird

so calm, unbothered by

the indignity of taking bodily

form at all. These three,

a portrait of grace: one

with a beak, thinking

nothing of it; another,

grants his finest treasure

for display. The third, in

stripes and patterns both,

reaches open-palmed toward

the strange being directly

before her, a vision of how,

without worry, one can be.