So Close...

38 Weeks

The mud season
sinks in after
the snow season
and I muck about,
duck-booted,
with his little feet
rolling like ballpoint,
writing from
his Jonah’s prison
on the round red
wall, his small cell,
in salt and sea.
What does he say?

He tallies another day
with a toe tap
against my most
musical rib as he
rocks in my bowl
to tunes playing
on the radio. The crocus
sprout shoots through
the spring goo,
which means time’s
almost served sweet
convict, already so
perfectly pitched
and articulate.