Mr. Jorgensen Holds His Shovel Closer Every Day By John Doyle

For Fionnuala and Susan Farragher

Moonlight is never less than equal to me,

though I'm colder than the moon.

Sunlight is brighter as my creed wriggles from my soul,

though my soul transmits a light sundown weaves its shadows from.

The patience of stones on the beach

made me sick of New York City, Mercury, and Utopia, their conjured evil and their ill-fitted moments.

I think it's wiser to pretend we belong there, 

stay as fast as the moon,

as tame as the sun,

as patient as a stone on the beach

writing songs I spy on Dennis Wilson handing to his pockets, 

examining his beard.

Gathered for my mouth

smoky puffs mime what dusk used to speak

in Summer, 

coming in like a moon saved from the sins of wedlock,

who screams that none of us are equal

when none of this showed up in the coroner's report.

Mr. Jorgensen (a man whose great-great uncle brought prosperity to this town)

handles that shovel like he's never dreamed of being in a rock n' roll band,

I'll make some things from the other things the sun and the moon

and the mysteries that laugh beneath the water

asked me to bring home with me today.

It'll be a song - for Mr. Jorgensen, who spends high-noon

making Jesus proud of his garden,

a place equal to the easy wilds of the beach

I wish I could bring him to see,

every second of every morning

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.