Neil McKay's Shared Poems

In high winds, the hawks pray
Their wings outstretched to heaven
As they take momentary communion with nature
With eyes wide open

When the winds have died
The hawks stand watch
Set themselves on the ramparts
Watch and listen
They are still
and they know

I remember sixteen,
It was all "what's for dinner"
and "could you do that somewhere else?"
and "I'm too tired to do dishes"
Unexpected anger
Due to cramped living quarters
I swear, every time I walk into the living room
he's there, reading the paper
watching boxing.
Pisses me off.

That gentle soul
Who paid for the shoes on my feet
The food on our table
The roof and walls that kept us safe and warm
Who loved my mother
And was so incredibly patient with me.
Embarrassment and shame now
admitting how much he irritated me.

Now I see a mirror in my sweetheart's house
Her son, irritated at being asked to help
What's for dinner, I'm so hungry
he says, having spent the last two hours
lying on the couch, watching TV
Waiting for her to come home
After working and going to school
Waiting to be waited on

It makes me mad for a minute
All the more because she puts up with it
But then I remember that patient man
Who put up with it
Who let it roll off his back
And I try to show some grace
And I tell her it's ok
That's just how boys are
And how he must feel safe and secure
To be able to mouth off like that
He feels unconditionally loved

And every so often
He shows some grace himself
He laughs at something I say
He asks my opinion
He wants me to side with him
Against the women in the house
Except for me, he's the only man now
So I'm happy to help him wage
That ongoing war of the sexes.
Til I get sent back to my house
Where there are only men.

My Grandma's bed had boxes under it.
I assumed they were full of patterns
She was a prolific seamstress.
She made a superhero costume for me
When I was five or six.
It was Robin, the Boy Wonder.
Not Batman, not Superman.
Robin. The Boy Wonder.

My Grandma sewed Noah
And Mrs. Noah and pairs of animals
Sheep, Giraffes,
I don't know, I'm doing this from memory.
My dad built an ark
On wheels. With a ramp
And a removable roof.
The roof had a hatch door so the giraffes could
stick their heads out.
Rabbits, Pigs.

My dad built an apartment
Over our garage
So my Grandma could live with us
She was not his mother
But she was Grandma.
Elephants, Doves
Her sons would not help my dad
And told him he would not succeed
But he was from Missouri
So go to hell.

My Grandma told me once
That I marched to the beat
of a different drummer.
It was true.
I spent a lot of time in her apartment
Playing with Noah and the Ark
Wearing my Robin costume
It had a yellow cape.

He finished it alone
My dad, that is, finished building the apartment by himself
He must have been around 50
I'm 50 now
I wish I could help him
I wish I could help my dad build an apartment for my Grandma

My dad could build anything out of sheet metal
He was a sheet metal worker
He belonged to the sheet metal workers union
Local 99
That's from memory
He retired when I was 17.
He died when I was 27.
He was 72.
I am now closer to 72 than I am to 27
But no closer to my dad

My Grandma had a record player
She and I would listen to Herschal Bernardi
singing songs from Fiddler on the Roof
We would listen to Gilbert and Sullivan's
HMS Pinafore.
Probably the D'oyly Carte Opera Company
But I'm not sure.
We would listen to Arther Fiedler and the Boston Pops
Playing the 1812 Overture.
With the cannons at the end.

I can still sing along
I still have that music
I am the monarch of the sea
and I never swear a big big D
and if I were a rich man
and I don't remember growing older
when did they?

I have my dad's table saw and drill press
They still work but I don't use them
When I got divorced my wife insisted I take them
Out of her garage
I moved into a small basement apartment
The table saw stood by my bed
The drill press in the closet
Waiting to be needed

It's quiet now.
No tire chains thumping down James Street
Everyone's home from work now
Everyone who's coming home
Those unlucky bastards who work the night shift
Will have to confront the Northeaster
When it arrives at midnight tonight.

Me, I'm safe. I'm home.
Let the wind blow, let the snow plow
I am behind insulated walls,
My blinds are closed tight
My threshold is sealed
Against the unwanted visitor

And I walk from room to room
Inspecting all my things
My books, my crosses,
My heart shaped stones
My box of old photos
My grandma's onion skinned papers
Her words stamped on them
With an inked ribbon and typebar letters
Her mistakes were crossed out
She did not waste paper
If she had to abandon a paper midway through
She turned it around and upside down
And started over.

This did not start out as a poem about my Grandma
They never do
But so many of them end that way.

Sometimes hope is the wrong thing
Tomorrow morning, the line will be long
At Les Schwab Tires.

Yesterday, a hundred, maybe two hundred
drivers with snow tires in their garage
or as yet unpurchased
hoped the snow would not hit
our dear city of subdued excitement
Closed their eyes to the signs

Today is Sunday and Les Schwab is closed
But the skies are opening
and the first snowflakes are dropping
onto dry streets

Tomorrow the hopeful will line up
Wait for hours until their turn at the lift
Some will kick themselves for hoping
Others will be resigned,
The price of hope is disappointment
Both of those states are temporary