A Friend Named Big Bird

A Friend Named Big Bird

 

By

 

Matt McGuire

 

I sit in the midst

of receipts

and unpaid demands

on a brown canvas throne

with no crown.

My body is covered in the sores

Of bread winning for pence—

Threshing weeds

In the land of the free,

Where bread and soup

Are doled to hollow men

And Senators.

My children toddle around me—

Their names are

Hungry

Naked

And Dirty.

My poor indomitable

wife, smiling, heavy

with child sews socks

On our rotten cloth love seat

Where birds sometimes sing

And bees often buzz.

The sweet cooing of our newest

Born dances from

The corner, where a summoned angel

Stands with a sword flaming

And eyes that know pity.

I gaze at my hands:

Cracked,

Splintered,

But not broken.

Tomorrow rises in anger against me

From the pages of the Times.

Reason and religion

face down market forces

And Greek debt.

Saint Claire’s birthday is the same

Day the Atom bomb was born,

And misery is just another word

For money.

Hope is found there,

Past the grim keep of our bank balance,

On the floor,

Where Hungry, Naked, and

Dirty play.

It’s in their toys,

Held out to me

In exorcism,

And their smiles

Because they don’t know that they’re

Poor.

They don’t even know they’re

Supposed to be sad.

They look up at me

And see the lined and worried

Face of Christ.

Not crucified,

But the one who is red,

Furry,

And singing.

The one who has cookies

And a friend named Big Bird.

It is there

That the Garden

Is open still.

Where no angel with flaming sword

Stands,

And serpents are rubber

And benign.

It is there that I choose to

Go and escape

The ruin of my thoughts.

Home is down on the carpet

Where the twin towers

Of worry and regret

Are sowed round with

Red fur and Crayola.

 

Days turn into years.

God help me they’re slipping away.