Presents? Oh Jack, You Know I Love Presents!

Those lines (or something similar to them) were uttered by the best soap opera diva *ever*, Erica Kane. Ever since then, when I think about gifts or presents, that's the first thing that comes to my head. Not very poetic.

Writers Island's prompt for the week was "The Gift." Since I clearly couldn't write about Erica and Jack, I was stumped. That is, until I took a walk this weekend to the Walker Art Center Sculpture Garden and had a shift in focus. This poem is what resulted.

Present

Unable to escape my own stink
(last night's slick, oily residue
still clinging to my skin)

I decide to go outside.

Strap on my shoes, grab
my keys, and push my body
down the long hill, beside
my home. I burn

past the empty bar, the smoky
sour taint of pork ribs and cheap rum
flooding the sidewalk; past

the old man wheeling
a garbage can filled with crushed
soda cans, as he curses
no one in particular. I sprint

beneath the overpass, checking for lurking
vagrants and flocks of gray pigeons;
bus exhaust fumes float past me. Cross

the footbridge, a checkerboard
of morning sun and shadows, and hop
down the steep steps, into the park.

There, in the shadow of the fountain,
a flock of Canada geese
root for food. There must be
twenty or thirty at least, nipping

and nesting in the dew damp
grass. I walk quietly, stunned
at their silence, their elegant
movements. A pantomime. Sidestep

their green turds, their white tufts
of feathers, walk towards
the lavender and purple flowers
blooming on the trellis. I touch
their soft petals, their fragile
stamens, and hear

only my steady breath. I still
smell my own sour stink, know
I can't escape it. Still,
right now, every cell in my body
sings gratitude.