Andrew O'Donnell

Ye Olde Man & Scythe

After a period of recuperation and self-reproval
he’s finally out of illness. Working. Better —
a pint of cider nudges my bar-strewn hand
while the jukebox manhandles its proclamations.

The local news spills brief interest;
a cat that returned home completely red,
the owner; mystified as to how it got that way;
a woman who went after spiders with a lighter

and can of hairspray; her house; up in floral flames.
Strange events to happen so nearby,
hard to think humans could even be involved.
It’s said something happened here

four hundred years ago.
I could make a mental note to look it up but,
having changed the jukebox with my last,
I wait, instead, for my one song to come on.