His Return...Seems Like a Good Day to Post the Last Poem I Ever Wrote in Kentucky (2007). A Sestina

his leaving (a sestina)

                                     ~Bryan Ripley Crandall

he never turned back.  packed his bags and left

beyond a circus and history in his pocket.

“goodbye, old world.” he promised. “i’m on my way now,”

and stepped on the gas to drive away.

that was when he was younger;

fledglings have reasons to leave the nest.

 he walked onto his porch, today, & saw a bird fallen from nesting.

 glanced at telephone wires to see if winged parents had left

 this featherless embryo with its bulging purple eyes, so young,

 and a beak open for insight (the creature could fit in his pocket).

 youth fallen from its house, so quiet. he needed to find a way           

 to get the lil’ guy into shelter & now

 seemed as good a time as any, he thought. the parents

 were away and he climbed to the roof, found the finch’s nest.

 the flight was his fault. in his world, it’s always

 his fault, and he could never be sure how many days he had left.

 he put the bird in the twigs, climbed down, hands in his pockets

 to think about how vulnerable we are when young.

 when he was younger,

 he promised his family he’d be rich, but now

 he made little -- crumbs -- and his pockets

 were filled with poetic lint.  perhaps this is why he harnessed

 every moment for what it was. whether he turned right or left,

 he’d find a figurative way

 to gain meaning. his friends thought it was his getaway,

 his escape: his solitude & his introspection, to make him younger.

 he knew, however, he had only three weeks left,

 and recognized he’d probably never really know

 where his heart was anyway - in this Louisville nest

 or perched in Syracuse (grabbing gum from his front pocket).

 as a child, he used to pick his parent’s pockets

 whenever he needed comfort or a way

 to get what he wanted (spearmint), but today he watched clouds, nestled

 in gray patterns of unconsciousness. Carl Jung

 would approve – he knew

 the brain worked in depths deeper than right or left.

           

  kentucky pockets carried younger

  new york days. he moved on: yes, maybe, perhaps, no.

  remembering the nest and the difficult choice to leave.