Son Of Plant Is The Wind At Your Back by Dennis Mahagin

You may be the one to prove them
wrong, in mid
October, emerging into sun and broken mist,
Led Zeppelin’s best song ringing
in your head: the one about being down
by the seaside, the sound
of fugitive truck tires kissing
wet pavement
when the tempo aspires to pick up
at the bridge, guitar jangling, a train horn
at the mouth
of a wreck; then a breath
of wood smoke :  the people
turned away …

It was the mailbox
you watched, from a third story window with red flag raised
in afternoons, too sad
to go out, that’s all, not a suicide
in waiting, nor mourning a daughter
you never had,
as if she had, in fact
died. Across the street, a mailbox
that can’t be checked
in weeks: you go there

now, meet a stranger, or neighbor
who shoots you two
pointed forefingers
at belly level, morphing into
a thumbs-up, for all the world, John Paul Jones
who’s come outside, into broken
sun rays, who hasn’t even
begun; and this neighbor says “How do?… Are you
okay? …”

You nod, meeting his eyes, and then bending to
the box:

A ton of junk mail, but a summons,
or simple will

to live is in there, too: you’ll find you

remember things that well …

and the Rolling Stone
magazine with Jimi Page on the cover
looking half his age, holding a dobro
under the belt, violin bell and bow
and grinning

like a man with a dozen new
songs to prove them

Dennis Mahagin

Dennis Mahagin is a poet from the Pacific Northwest. His work appears widely, both on the Web and in print.


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