for Sister Monica Joan I’ve sort of lost track of time, but it must have been, oh, a dozen or so years ago that I put a rear-view mirror on my medicine chest, so that now when I shave of a morning I can only see myself in the past. And therefore, by a process I cannot pretend to understand, do I grow one day younger every day. As long as I keep shaving, I’m slipping backwards twenty-four hours at a time, growing gradually more limber, my synapses finger-popping like Hank Ballard and the Midnighters, my beard no longer bristling with silver but turning to a burr of golden blond. When I remember how to move the appropriate muscles in my face, I catch the reflection of something resembling a smile, teeth sparkling, eyes bright….
“Head Space,” Poems by Ted Millar
Head Space I still know my childhood best friend’s telephone number even though I’ll never dial it again. I’ve taught certain poems so many times I can recite them on demand, yet some claim that has no practical application. Most find my ability to name the American presidents by years in office amusing before urging me to remember “something important” (like last night’s winning Powerball numbers?). I embrace my savant-esque ability to rattle off every Bob Dylan album and the songs featured on them. I prefer not to cram my head with empty crap on the radio and celebrity gossip, thank you very much. Want something proofread, I’m the resident grammarian, but if it’s scores to last night’s game, I suggest turning on ESPN. I’ve actually read the whole Constitution, not cherry-picked excerpts. Ditto the Declaration of Independence, the United Nations’ Declaration of…