THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

Jensen Calico, the local troubadour, turned ninety yesterday, and he performed a new song of his own creation that he said was untitled. “That’s the name,” he said. “But you can call it anything you want.” As usual, he permitted those present to record and distribute it as they wished, with his only request being that the lyrics be printed in full in the paper. “It’s how I’ve always done it,” he said. “It’s cheaper than hiring a secretary, and I like sometimes walking around town and seeing a scrap of paper blow across the street and wondering if a part of one of my songs is on it.” Calico’s first song, “Put An End To It All,” appeared in the paper seventy-one years ago, when he was still known as Eugene Johnson; since then, more than three hundred lyrics have been published. Here, the editors have chosen to alter Calico’s title slightly.

“Untitle”

A bird shot from the drainpipe, singing someone’s name—
Not an ordinary person, but a woman born to fame. 

Her father was an actor. Her mother was a priest. 
Her sister was a shadow until her weight increased. 

At midnight, three conductors came out to the farm. 
They were looking for the bird. They meant to do it harm. 

The woman had decamped from there and journeyed to the sea. 
Her eyes were filled with sadness. They were large and looked at me. 

A man stood with his back to us. He was bald right through his hat. 
She said he was Napoleon, but I’d have none of that. 

She closed her hand around my hand and kissed me nice and slow;
After which she pulled me down into the waves below. 

Then the sea closed over us. The sky above withdrew. 
I didn’t know just where we were, or even what I knew. 

Beside us in the water was a mailbox and a map, 
One inside the other, held there with a strap. 

“We should go north, and fast,” she said, her voice consumed with love. 
Then she took off everything, except for one black glove. 

The fingers of anemones were flickering like lights 
As the bird sang out her name, distant in the heights. 

The woman shook her head but she didn’t say a word. 
I asked if she’d wake me up. She curtsied and demurred.