Playing With The Brim Of The Hat Poem by Sina Sanjari

On the local nightly news,
Stephen Cross speaks of his new book —
Its hero, a man named Howard,
Murdered on Halloween night.

Stephen's face flushes,
His eyes dart this way and that,
As if afraid to confront reality.

If Howard is the same Howard Fletcher,
I know him —
First I saw him standing on Stephen's porch.

If Howard is indeed Howard Fletcher,
He entered the Robinsons' house on Halloween night,
And stayed there —
Forever.

But later, I saw him many times,
In the backyard by the fireplace woodpile,
By the ocean shore,
By highway one,
Sitting on a rock,
Playing with the brim of his hat...

Stephen Cross is a servant of time,
A reporter of doom,
News I hear more and more lately.

Amongst it all,
To escape the news of doom,
Sometimes,
I have no refuge but the edge of the cliff
At the intersection of Madison and Georgia.

Only sometimes —
For it's long been that horses run wild
On streets leading to the ocean,
Squirrels have found their way
From giant tree branches to the rooftops,
Raccoons leave no backyard clutter untouched,
Crows occupy the power lines,
And people lock their rooms from inside.

The nightly news is over —
The night continues.

I step outside.
On Stephen's porch,
Howard reclines in a rocking chair,
Playing with the brim of his hat,
As if... never... anything...
The calm of night
Justifies him.

— March 2015