Reservoir

You take the back lane, following the curve
of street until it meets the steps to the reservoir.
At the top, triumphant, you stop for a cigarette,

puffing smoke in the face of legs and lungs.
Let them burn this day before your cross-
examination. In England, at least the skies

will glower back this time of year but here,
between the rows of houses on the hill,
the mountains of San Gabriel just flash

their flawless canines, and you remember a dog,
five-thousand miles and several decades past
outside a bookies’ shop, tethered to

a trash can that it knocks down pulling on
its leash. And in the din, the dog bolts,
the metal lid still fixed around its collar.

Listen! Streets away, the effort
to outrun the fear that chases it through
the neighborhood, goes on. You stub out

your cigarette and with your clattering
thoughts, head to the water’s edge.

—Martin Jago

Dead Men Don’t Marry

Solitude is a young man’s game.
When you’re young,
it builds character.
When you’re old,
it corrodes the soul.
The way of the world,
as you haven’t lived it,
as it is lived by almost everyone else,
weighs down too hard,
and the older you get,
the more isolated one’s position,
the heavier it becomes.
It’s too late for a lifestyle change.
But one look at the lives
of your married friends,
usually reassures you
that by remaining single
you have made the right choice.

—John Tottenham