by David Chorlton
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| Tiberius Penny at The Smithsonian |
Word comes down from the mountain
that Caesar has awakened
and begun to ask for what is his,
much to the distaste of the next man in line
whose shirt tells everyone he’s tuned
to a radio in the sky and he can tell you
why Washington’s to blame
for the state of all things on Earth. He orders
enchiladas. Says with pride
he’s ex-law enforcement. Smiles
at a passing thought available
only to himself.
With taxes comes the time
the ocotillo greens in the front yard
where the first of summer’s orioles
has found her way back
to where she came last year. She’s a flash
between red blossoms
and arrives when the Earth’s clock tells her to:
when the people empty their pockets
and count small change, when they
find news in dark rumors, sign their checks
and send them to Caesar
on the last of winter’s winds.
David Chorlton observes the coming and going of birds in the corner of Phoenix where he lives, near South Mountain. The Mountain became the focus of his short book published by Cholla Needles last year, The Inner Mountain, which featured watercolors and poems.
