a monk on fire (for John Prine)

because I heard he may be dying

I listened to hours of John Prine

before I went to bed

My wife peeked her head in my office

told me an owl was hooting in a tree

I never understood a hooting owl

why they warned the night

they would be up and hunting

my Uncle Junior told me

not to fear a hooting owl

because they were only a baby

calling for their mother to feed them

It was the big ones

who could carry off young children

to feed their hungry babies

that you couldn’t hear

I remembered how I would run hunched over

all the way back to grandma’s house

at three a.m. I awoke

to something fighting for its life

in the dark outside our window

the screeching of an owl

a resigned moan waiting for death

I fell back asleep

dreamed in black and white

of saffron robes, empty petrol cans

a monk on fire, McNamara’s lie

the holy resurrection of Dow Jones

handsome Johnny going off to war

Marilyn never did grow old

now John Prine is dying

this damn virus holds the economy

prostrate at its feet

I woke early,

reheated yesterday’s coffee

listened to birds sing

as if nothing had happened

I checked the yard for evidence

of last night’s struggle

found neither feather or fur

whatever it was, it was carried away

to begin its next life in the belly of owl

I checked to see

if John Prine was still alive

who else had disappeared before morning

and thought maybe it would be better

to be carried off into the night

in the talons of a hungry owl

3-30-20