David Sapp
Joe
I came upon Joe
by chance at the edge
of the lake, in a brilliant
autumn afternoon, saffron,
crimson and bronze
saturating everything in
the arboretum where each
bush and tree was assiduously
classified, labeled in Latin,
nature tidied on little plaques.
Joe was an English professor
who taught composition
and literature now and then
(but nothing too esoteric),
the nicest guy who never
offered an unkind word
(but lacked a firm opinion)
for anyone or much of anything.
Joe appeared vexed,
his phone to his ear,
navigating an apparent domestic
crisis and required an expanse
of sky overhead, a remote
horizon for this negotiation,
only the foliage eavesdropping.
His voice rising and rising,
demanding or was it pleading,
earnestly or was it insistently?
From a distance, I couldn’t say.
I wondered what was so weighty
when, look how gracefully
the blue heron takes flight.
