Ode to Kurt Prond

King of pretending to be drunk, this guy will swerve

his old tan Buick down deserted streets,

hitting potholes and narrowly missing the curb.

He’ll lean towards you and grab your shoulder

while the steering wheel whines like Chewbacca

at every turn.  “This guy,” he’ll say, voice wavering,

looking at the dashboard, “This guy’s a real ballplayer.”

All this after he throws back Blue Moon and Sam Adams

with the rest.  He’ll hog all the stories; he’ll belt out

fables you wouldn’t believe no matter how much you swallow,

tall tales about climbing sheer cliffs, rebuking deer,

and demons who speak Russian.  He looks like a prophet,

starts his prayers with “Father,” and laughs himself out of breath.

He finds secret wild asparagus patches and jumps

into trees when he gets restless, or sometimes drives to Montana.

One day he got an itch in his arteries, and now he’s simmering

across the country, being brought to a boil on the mountain

before coming down all aglow.  Deadly on guitar,

bicep tensed, fingers glide across the fret board.

Get him behind a piano and he’ll hang you out to dry,

he’ll whip your folds in the breeze, while water drips off.

He sings like he’s melting, like he’s about to break

into tears before the buildup to the climax,

a wall of noise, and breathless, you never want dry eyes. 

He’ll pound peace into your chest until you arrive. 

Adam Dolezal