after Ron Salisbury
I push the plate of avocado slices and lime wedges
toward Him, and the shaker of cayenne.
For a moment, His hands are busy. A contented sigh.
He touches the long wood table.
My Son would like this. He knows something
about wood. Seats twelve?
Thirteen. If you squeeze a little.
He looks down at the empty plate.
Oh, sorry. The other avocados are hard as rocks.
He shrugs, not wanting me to feel bad.
I could ripen them up?
I’m flustered. Oh! Wouldn’t that be cheating?
He half-smiles while I think, what a dope!
So what was it you wanted to ask me?
Well, it’s about Billy Collins. Billy Collins?
He smiles wider.
You gotta love a man who goes by Billy.
Yes. Yes, but here’s the thing. What’s with the Buddha?
The Buddha? Nice guy. He looks at me quizzically.
I mean, in the poems. You know, the one about shoveling
snow over his shoulder like a mountain. And the one
where the Buddha gets off the dashboard and starts walking.
You know.
Chuckling, He lays His hand on mine.
In His glittering eyes, galaxies collide.
Honestly, I have no idea.
The Poeming Pigeon, Fall 2023