He smoked only occasionally
On still evenings when he could
Hear the nearby river murmur
And swell. Who knows
How fast or deep.

Handrolled, inexpertly,
Always a little lumpy.

His earliest memories were of
His grandfather rolling cigarettes
On a handmade wooden table.
Settle the shag on the paper,
Like making a tiny bed.
The boy watched as if beholding 
Some lost tribal ritual.
Lick the little envelope and
Lay it aside.
Neat as a sealed scroll.

In the dusky porch light
He'd sit on his grandfather's knee
As he smoked and wove 
Stories no one could now remember.
The boy's mother and sister 
Listening along.

As he smoked he was aware
Of the cancer that had turned 
The old man gaunt and grey
Before the end.
The smoke stretched into the 
Darkness as he exhaled,
Like an isthmus of fog.

He didn't believe he'd meet
The old man again one day.
There was only the draw and exhale.
Scent of the beginning and the end.

And the smoke moving in
Long curves.
Both balletic and torpid. 
And both present and absent.
But always tending toward absence.

What we know to be true can be
Confirmed only through logical
Deduction, claimed René Descartes, 
Setting the course of Western philosophy
And science.
He deduced (quite famously) 
That he at least existed
—For to doubt requires 
A doubter; thoughts, a thinker.
But beyond that, 
Nothing should be assumed.

For example, what proof was there 
That animals were conscious?
They move, react, make noises.
But this is insufficient,
For so too can intricate machines 
Filled with belts and gears.
Animals are "nature's machines," he wrote. 
Biological automata.
To believe they were conscious was baseless, 
Irrational, sentimental.
A contemporary of Descartes observed
That learned followers of
The great philosopher-scientist

“administered beatings to dogs with perfect indifference and made fun of those who pitied the creatures as if they felt pain. They said the animals were clocks; that the cries they emitted when struck were only the noise of a little spring that had been touched.” ¹

Sometimes know I exist (and only sometimes)
Through reading a poem.
Now and again one arrives to meet me,
And I receive evidence that there’s
Someone in there to be met.

A voice reaches out
And presses a palm
To my naked chest.
And through that other’s palm I can
Feel my own heart beating
Out of the silence.

So I fear that one day
I might be moved by a poem,
While somehow sensing
Or discovering later,
That it was assembled from words
Without a voice.

A hand detached from a body,
Groping blindly forth,
With too many fingers.
But still pressing its
Palm to my wet heart.

And then through that palm
I’ll feel just a neat,
Too-regular ticking.
And utter a cry caused only
By a little spring
That has been touched.

^{1. Qtd. in Rosenfield, Leonora. From Beast-Machine to Man-Machine. New York: Columbia, 1968, 54.}

With my shoulder aching
From the weight of my work satchel
I stopped to sit 
On a park bench by a statue.
Slate-grey bronze pushed skyward,
On a plinth of concrete, high as my head. 
Some centuries-ago city father.

Lowering the satchel to the ground,
At last, I turned my attention to my lunch:
Hot chips, small bag.
$6.50. Regular salt.

And then the seagulls arrived:
Swivel-necked and stony-eyed,
Reeled in by the steaming tang 
Of salt and fat.

They commenced barging and cackling, 
Vying for prime position
Like an unwashed crowd
At a three-day concert.
And wailing toward me 
With throttled vibrato.
Really putting their necks into it.

I cast out one or two chips as I ate,
Watching the warm morsels met each time
By a headlong rush, spearing and snatching,
Claimed by the quickest draw.
The losers shrieking brief lamentations,
Before pivoting back
To the wondrous origin.

I spotted one bird,
Perhaps ten metres and 
Too many rows back.
Close by the statue’s poo-spattered plinth.
It stood on just one twiggy leg,
Outmatched in this anarchy,
This world of swoops and shoves,
Bleating uncertainly.

I lobbed a fat chip toward him,
As you do.

The feral gaze of his competitors tracked
The chip's wobbly flight,
Their bodies already angling,
Fast-twitching to rush and tackle.

But my aim was good:
Aid arrived too swiftly to be
Confiscated by bullies and ruffians.

One-Leg caught it with warming skill.
He split and swallowed half instantly.
And with a brief flap for momentum,
Glided behind the plinth
To finish the rest unbothered.

But I'd been watching closely . . .
The second before he vanished from view
(And with my face drawing into an irate pinch)
I'd seen that bird put his other leg down.

Seconds later, 
Having scoffed his prize,
He discreetly returned to the
Back of the screeching rabble. 

And what do you think happened then?
As his peers fretted and implored and 
Fixed on my diminishing supply,
He pattered out to the rear flank,
Swivelled to face me,
Tucked one leg utterly out of sight 
And once again 
Began bleating woe in my direction.

I just stared.
My charitable hand now motionless.

The garbled chorus grew louder.

One gull strutted boldly close to me
But wheeled back again,
As if avoiding eye contact,
As if that was just a mistake.
One-Leg continued mewling from the flank.

I looked down at the bag in my hand,
White paper now dappled dark with chip sweat.
A couple left, over-yellow like stale butter.
A brittle, woody one below those.
Runnels of loose salt at the bottom.
I wasn't hungry anymore, anyway.

Too busy wincing, 
Having suddenly seen myself,
Sitting there, 
Acting the Moral Judge of Seagulls.

And before that surely a King,
Delighting in his own benevolence
Toward the wretched and downtrodden.

In fact, hadn't I imagined my generosity
As even more marvellous?
To the birds my blessings were surely
Something inscrutable, ecstatic.
Like divine rain suddenly shimmering 
Over the parched crops of 
Weeping Calvinists.

Now sitting embarrassed 
Before the sharp gaze
Of creatures already gifted
With a humble knack for pattern-recognition.
Canny fish-catchers
With little imagination,
But who know a resource 
When they spot one.

I tossed the remaining chips carelessly 
To the noisy throng and stood up
Dusting salt from my hands, 
Perhaps a little too showily.
I scrunched the empty bag into my pocket,
Scrunched my face into a smile,
And looked around, scanning above the fray.

I noticed the statue was darkening
As the winter sun dipped, 
And glanced down at my watch.
Then grunted as I picked up my heavy bag
To start back toward work.