ralph waldo emerson walks across
the bare common, the distant edge of winter, cold,
a blue-gray twilight pallor caught in the fold
of blustery clouds pressing down, the mind at a loss
to find any special good fortune, thought, in the dross
of the day. granulated snowflakes scour, hold
to the tips of fallow grasses and dry foliage rolled
in the wind: a perfect exhilaration, gladness, close
on the brink of fear. now reggie jackson strides in
from centerfield, a yankee, mr october,
the straw that stirs the drink, he knows how to win.
a tv sports guy asks: you’re famous, rich,
but are you really happy? serious, sober:
man, I don’t know about happy– but I’m one glad son of a bitch.
© philip kimball 2009
published in Coal City Review 26: 2009