Clarity Never Complained

A pleasant July afternoon

Shifted its focus

With dark, puffy clouds

That spanned the horizon

Like wrinkled sheets.

Faint rumbling out at sea

Threatened a hit and run shower.

Local gardens, though, needed

More than drizzle’s innuendo:

A starched, smarmy pledge,

A blowhard’s bluff,

That broke its promise.

Nature’s calling.
Can you hear it?

Across the bay

A jagged sliver of light

Flashed downward and

Slapped a veteran pine —

An old soldier in the game

Somewhat hunched and wary,

Yet still poised and proud.

TV weather dude with

Capped teeth and wavy hair,

Eager to transfer to sports,

Glanced at the studio screen

With the Doppler feed

And said, “Storm’s coming.”

Though he was wrong again,

Clarity never complained.

A long, black limo,

Last used for a funeral

Snaked into the parking lot

Just a few minutes late.

The candidate, a professional

In the dry cleaning business,

Was nice to look at

If you liked ‘em tall and wiry.

Gary Cooperish

At close range,

A yup and noper,

Never a groper;

But a natural in front

Of the right crowd.

“Today marks the beginning

Of the beginning,”

He said, striding to the podium.

Three of the younger women swooned,

Perhaps like their grandmothers did

When they saw Elvis for the first time

On the Ed Sullivan Show.

Or was it The Beatles?

The candidate’s latest wife

Enjoyed the outburst,

Sensing that

Everything was possible.

The money, the endless train

Of those prodding

And pushing,

Demanding to get aligned

With the future.

It was all working out.
There was nothing

That could

Derail their quest,

Nothing that could

Put a bullet in the head

Of their campaign.

Though the voters

Proved her wrong,

Clarity never complained.

“It was a time of confidences.”

Guy Crowley gazed

Out his apartment window,

Wondering if he should find

Another radio station.
The oldies were okay, for a while,

But some of those folk songs

Drove him kind of nuts.

Guy cut the coupon

Out of the Press Herald.
Wanted: Acting Tutor

For two children, twins,

12 years old. Brunswick.

207 779-3434.

“Calling about the ad,”

Guy said, after taking

A deep breath and

Using the exhale

To make the sound:

His stage voice

Loud and present.

Maybe that was

A factor.
Three days later

He met the mother

For coffee and passed

Inspection, the final hurdle.

Twice a week

For two months

He drove down
To Orr’s Island

And arrived by

9 a.m. Then, in the

downstairs rec room,

Jeff and Jenny Sprague

Gave Shakespeare

A run for his money.

“I don’t have a goal,”

Alice Sprague, the mother,

Had said. “They’re shy.
They don’t have companions.
I believe speaking verse

Will help. What do you think?”

Guy agreed, partly because

He thought it true, and partly

For the 25 bucks an hour Alice

Had mentioned, including lunch.

They were bashful,

No getting around it.
“Read the sonnets out loud,”

Alice had said the first day,

Grabbing her tennis gear

For her daily session

On the Bowdoin campus.

Eventually, Guy

Realized that he

Wasn’t so much a mentor,

As he was the new friend

And part-time sitter.

That’s what had

Actually been arranged.

But the money was good.
Clarity never complained.