On the Way to WorkRichard Soberpaintings

Curious Hand

I could have measured my life
by its afflictions and squandering,
my accomplishments, the checkered career
managing to find itself standing on both feet,
if not on firm ground. The numerous blackouts,
false starts, misadventures, creative blocks.

I chose to remove myself from the books,
my hat hung on a white hook
next to the door where I keep
record of my years flying out of my hands,
a trapped bird released into the cottonwoods
along the cold narrow river. I could not account
for each inch of my life’s progress.

I never thought you were immune to the doves
outside the morning window, you needed the cats
as much as they needed you. The vast collection
of keys to places you forgot you loved.
The skies from which you were locked out,
the gentleness you kept close to your heart,
that empty room to which you returned and waited
for nonexistent students, your gentleness vast
as any rich undiscovered grassland never touched
by any wind, by any curious hand.

RS 2010