Roger Pfingston
A retired teacher of English and photography, Roger Pfingston is the recipient of a Poetry Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. His poems have appeared in a wide range of publications, including Poetry East, American Journal of Poetry, Innisfree Poetry Journal, I-70 review, Apple Valley Review, Sheila-Na-Gig online, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His latest chapbook, What’s Given, is available from Kattywompus Press.
It Matters Still
It matters still, the married weight
of our sleep, trusting the night
will prevail and see us to the morning
table of napkin, silverware, plate or bowl.
And just outside the window the usual
flurry at the birdfeeder singing a medley
of thank-yous, their hunger our entertainment.
Later, poems for me, the elusive words,
though a playful few arrange and rearrange,
dancing a tease of a line. A book for you
or the lure of the garden when the season allows,
and always a nap to shorten the afternoon,
hopefully not to be undone like two days ago…
the dual mufflers that had us up, the truck
a scabby peel of paint and rust flying not one
but two Confederate flags, though what
followed was the blink of a bird’s wing,
chimes in the maple…balm for the bruised air.
Some days a blend of errands and walks,
appointments, any one of which could darken
the moment or lighten our steps, both of us
forties born, a couple of Kilroy babies
still traveling the guess of allotted hours,
the day timing down to the gift of again
when “all things have repose,” and if we’re lucky,
the owl’s voice—deep in the woods across
the road—inviting another to share his night.
Birthday Angst
It began with dew jeweled by a slow
infusion of morning sun, not a bad start,
the usual in-between of cards and cake,
toasts and wishes, the hard to believe
of eight decades plus three until
I found myself wanting to be,
for a given while, nothing but a stare
and a heartbeat, trusting my desires
are not lost, only misplaced, that I
am still enough of a mortal bridge
to bear the traffic of my own weight,
remembering a friend’s words about
himself… his bones too brittle for a zip line.
But if I lose my way, unable to conjure,
there’s always the measure of circadian rhythms,
the sweeping and sorting a life requires.
Even the dog on my neighbor’s porch
turns around three times before lying down.
