The Startup–a poem by Ken

March on April into May,
Oh my,
Grey damp near summer weather’s here complete with crows,
The gods have gotten us together one more time,

  Sharpest cawing and raven hunching of coal black wings,
  Yellow eyes alert to each movement down below, 

  I’m huddled now over breakfast here myself,
  I am wary, I am worried,

        Flanneled to the max,
               Groaning with each chilly exhalation,
                      Creaking forward to get a better look at the NY Times,

   This is retirement,
   A life without commute,

   And a life also without any commutation of advancing age,

   No real where to go,
   No real way out,

   Nothing doable anyway today, but television or silence,
   Or the midway barely audible finger tapping on an iPad screen,

  That’s where my life is now,
          In that soft tapping, in those just felt words              
          Appearing as they do
               Like raindrops just beginning 
                     To dampen up the deck,

          Sky grey moist falls most morning times, 
          That’s my way of starting up  my life,

           Softly shrill siren sounds from a few blocks away,
           The hollow trembling roar of a climbing plane,
           The now near silence of the crows,
                 The hooked beaked nod of death itself
                      All set to float down on the day.

            Well come on in, have a seat,
            We’ll chat as I finish up the dishes,
            I’ll do mantra with you with each breath,
            The Vajra Guru,

                    You know that don’t you?
                    You can learn it from the crows,
                    It’s their morning wake up call.

A Poem by Ken Mckeon