In the Rye and Elsewhere

silver lining, angie tan

Of Catchers (for andy)
by Anthony Abbott

In the rye and elsewhere I can only say
It is a matter of timing. These kids,
You know, running through the deep field,
Not seeing the cliff and you there, noble you,
With your big hands grabbing one. Great.
But the next tumbles screeching down below
Into whatever. The field is too damnned
Big, the kids are everywhere. You see?
Watching her fingers one last time stretching
for you and she falls.

Catching. It’s bruised thumbs
And busted bones in every joint and a cold
Smack in the soul every time you lose one.

So drop it, son, so to speak. Now.

Here, in these piles of leaves and chapped finger fires, I find myself wanting to be a chaplain. I started drinking coffee without sugar. A gift one morning from a bedside friend. I need to be awake so I can hear people. God doesn’t always show up where you expect him, but some people see him all the time. Dollar bills, billboards, that sort of thing. I try beginning Buechner books and seminary applications but never finish either of them. (“He who has a slack hand becomes poor. The hand of the diligent makes rich.”*)
I want to spend days studying through stories, I want to pull the shoestrings together between the dedicated and dismissed. I want to collect mana and other things that come from the sky. gather all the rain. cynics. kites daydreamers. leaves. And put them in apple picking baskets. I want to be a catcher.

music to listen to today: trapeze swinger, iron and wine

*proverbs 10:4