James Lee Jobe Poems

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It's mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me

with a shudder; I'm just a man.


For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant

has come to our patio to steal some of the dry catfood,

sometimes right in front of my cat.


The house is still, and I enjoy the Sunday newspaper

with strong, dark coffee; the smell of it dances

around in the early darkness.


Driving to church there is bright, eager sunshine,

and the shadows of bare winter oaks stripe the lane

like a zebra; shadow, light, shadow.


At church I pray for my favorite aunt, Anna, her clock

seems to be quickly winding down, dear lady, widow

of my favorite uncle, Richard; mostly I just pray

that she finds her center.


The pheasant is a male, strikingly colored,

so beautiful, in fact, that I've begun to scatter extra catfood

to draw him back; we have become his grocery store.


I tell my wife that if he comes a 6th day, I'll give him a name,

Richard; but he never comes again.

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