Crack Jac Myth

by Boston poet Jim Dunn

In his eyes I see the sad kindness

of an aging old golden retriever

tired from the visions but

burning bright with delight

 

His charm is an ancient Celtic wisdom

He weaves wicker stories that creep slowly down

the backstairs of your memory

He talks to you in your own voice

A familiar

timber that falls in the

forest of his lesson.

 

The dinosaurs of his addiction

have paired off in resignation

And circle slowly in

The Neponset Circle of

the storyteller's mind

 

The British addresses of

his workaday world

become postcards

he writes with

wit and glee

 

His prayers are

capsules swooshing

through a pneumatic tube

to the great department store

cashier in the sky.

 

He nods his head in a humble way

when he has completed his story

As if to shake off the notion of

a halo

And to dispel the

perception of the masses

that he is the master

 

But he is the masterful teacher

in the purest sense of the word

For when he finishes his lesson

He astutely takes notes

on cue cards, 3 x 5 listening intently

to what all the others have to say.

The teacher is the student.

 

He tells me he takes notes

purely for his muse.

"Maybe I'll mishear a

turn of phrase.

And use it for inspiration

Or, Maybe It's just too

good to let it slip away

purely from my memory."

 

As he talks his back is bent

Like an oak tree growing closer

to the ground as it reaches towards the sky

Gathering all its nuts at its feet

for the squirrels to horde away.

  

It is in his simple way

That he bowls you over

with a feathery phrase

 

  

It's in his simple way

The master is the student

 

He tucks his experience

under his arm

Tips his head in acknowledgement

he makes a rainbow

of his pains, his pleasures

joys and his sorrow.

 

And as if he's heard a secret whisper

he thoughtfully

removes his glasses

from his face

and humbly

he blurs

away

just out of focus

bleeding colors

into

fade

away.