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Letter from the Parking Lot
One of the sparrows
near the dumpster
doesn’t see me until
I am too close, and he
startles, in a paroxysm
of feathers and gravel,
propelling the tight fist
of his body skyward,
hurtling, missile-like,
up and over my right
shoulder. And I too
am shocked, stopped
mid-step, not by this
blitzkrieg action, but
by a reflex that rises
in me, quick as any
creature’s: to reach up
and block the unseen
arc of this bird’s flight.
I find myself wishing
for a baseball mitt—
me, who hasn’t swung
a bat in twenty years,
who as a kid was always
sent to the outfield, where
I could do the least
harm—today I want
the chance to pluck
this line drive out of
midair, not for some
crumb of redemption,
no, this limbic impulse
feels deeper. Perhaps it is
that old, original urge: to
capture those who have
what we do not, to fix
the moth to the mounting
board, to hang the bear’s
head above the mantel,
to sear and swallow
the fish’s flesh, to steal
and steal again, and then
to lie about it,
as the geese weep
silently from our beds,
and the fireflies stare
from glass jars, clutched
in the arms of our own
fine children, whose hunger
seems only to grow.
Joel Showalter has spent his life in what other people call the Rust Belt: half in a small Indiana city, half in a major Ohio metropolis. The region’s varied landscapes, as well as its many inherent tensions, continue to influence his writing. His poems have appeared in The Carolina Quarterly, december, Delmarva Review, Mud Season Review, The Christian Century, and other publications around the country. In 2020, he received an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council.