he was no Big Fish


Like a Showy Ladyslipper in the woods
unseen by all except
chipmunks (scrabbling adept
through silent clerestories of dead

cedars) Hobo strayed, from Ursus
Major to St. Apollinaire;
he was no Big Fish, barely
a minnow Star du Nord (Jesus

his seine-maître, toiling away
upstream).  America
steamed on, formica-
sleek, pregnant with Labor Day

& White-Tailed Rabbit & Polar Bear
looked on, from cell blocks
melting in the superflux.
The Man of Concrete was no longer there

(he’d cried himself to sleep).  Henry
by a berried Berryman
stood by, his Resurrection
Plot cartooned in St. Paul snow (flaky);

apathetic Oblomov, at the gazebo
spied Olga in the distance –
wading through native plants
like sweet Cordelia coming to rescue

jet-bagged Lear.  Earth dangled
from one silver hair,
suspended over the bear-
cave (striped with blood, star-bangled).


"Pinecone", by Marcia McEachron

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