The Tour Guide
The tour guide showed our group the local sights. He pointed to himself. "I am the tour guide." He pointed overhead. "That is the sky." He pointed to the past. "That was long ago." The tour went on and on. Eventually I was the only one left in the group. "This is what living things with lungs breathe," the guide said, indicating the air. He pointed to a house across the street. "Hey, there's where you live." I followed him inside. He pointed to two people I'd never seen before. "This must be your wife and child." My child smiled. He showed me his sore tooth. According to the brochure this was the happiest I'd ever been. My wife played our song and danced with the guide. I took it all in.
The Snow Removal Truck
The snow removal truck got stuck in the snow in my driveway today. The driver stepped out, shoveled near his wheels, and tried again, but no luck. The wheels kept spinning. His friend came to help, and got stuck. His friend's friend showed up. More friends. His family, distant relatives, many others from his past, all arrived and got stuck, hundreds of them. I sensed by their campfires, tents and flags that they would never leave, and that I'd have no choice but to live among them, and learn their stuck ways. I waited for the day to end, for evening to fall, but it never did. "This is our tomorrow," the driver's cousin said. "But what will we do when yesterday comes?" I asked. He shook his head and said yesterday is a mystery. "No one knows what it will bring."
Jason Heroux is the author of four books of poetry: "Memoirs of an Alias" (2004); "Emergency Hallelujah" (2008); "Natural Capital" (2012) and "Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines" (2016). His most recent book is the novel "Amusement Park of Constant Sorrow" (Mansfield Press, 2018). He is the current Poet Laureate for the City of Kingston