Man and Pelican by John Grey

Photograph by Michèle from Flickr

 

At six a.m., I am sipping coffee,
as the first pelican of the day
perches alone on a jutting rock,
before setting off
to poach on the sea’s salt lands.

I am only moderately awake
but the bird goes from sleep to hunt.
from one need to another,
while I’m still gathering up
all of my mind’s belongings.

By the time I swallow the last drop of java,
that pelican will have snared his first fish
maybe a second, even a third,
with a plunge that I’d need
two more hours of yawning and eye-rubbing
and twenty years off my age to match.

The pelican is only ever what it is.
At six a.m., I am half the man
I used to be, and maybe 2/5
of the one I am now.
So far, today, I’ve accomplished nothing.
My gular pouch is empty.

 

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Isotrope Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.