I learn you are also a rheumatologist in Bethesda, a realtor in Orlando. In 1902, you were a universalist and rained pages of the Bhagavad-Gita from a glider. You were a general and a saint—either way lifting hands and when you did there was silence. Baseball coach who died near third base waving his runner home. It would be easier if you were dead—skeleton with a gold tooth in a bay-sunk galleon, field mouse picked at first by vulture then by cricket then lonely churn of time. If you were a ventriloquist’s doll. Then we could say “he knows not what he does,” and then we too could be forgiven. For Googling your name instead of trying to do the work of dismantling the mysterious machine that put you wherever it is you are, so far from where you began, in a place that looks for some reason like home. It has flowers, anyway.
Jeff Whitney is the author of five chapbooks, two of which were co-written with Philip Schaefer. Recent poems can be found in 32 Poems, Adroit, Booth, Muzzle, Prairie Schooner, The Puritan, and Verse Daily. He lives in Portland.