Chidago Canyon Petroglyph
Nocturne
At the end of every term
my chamber music buddies
threw a blowout bash
on the Pacific,
where one time as Bang Bang
the doctor’s son commanded
us not to,
Ghost the academic’s
son, who fancied himself
a Southern aristocrat,
followed me —
not to be outdone —
as with memory recording
in a mode almost
state specific
by the black ocean
I bounded over the beach
like a big golden
retriever pup
through night fog
and surf sound
right up to a pair
of men when one was asking
What do we do with the body?
and like the Willamette
Valley boy
I was raised to be,
with my brain beyond
connecting dots,
I assumed they had a wholesome
reason for the word choice,
and when Thing One
said to Thing Two —
looking at me —
This one’s your job,
Ghost promised
out of privilege to pursue
them to any Aladdin’s
cave or rathole
they might hide in,
if they took me,
and he ran off
and I followed fast
leaving the bad guys
too flabbergasted to move
as we caught up to Bang Bang,
who cowered in the distance
and blended with the shadows —
the story of his life.
__________________
Brian Jerrold Koester