Four poems for Stuart Ross’ sixtieth birthday
by rob mclennan
1.
Each of your birthdays, in turn, highlight
such universal constants: poodles, pigeons,
sparrows,
haircuts. Writer going to hell! The name
telegraphs, withers. This amplitude of highways
that bear significant weight across lakeshore,
and the inability
of metaphor. I open
my mouth.
2.
For such an occasion, one centres the mind.
We reconfirm altitude,
amplitude, position: Amherst
and Hardscrabble; the Upper Canada
Academy. These strongholds
of Family Compact, and a garage
packed with chapbooks. One late, late night
in 1979: you began to formulate an outline,
calculating digits
in your father’s office. The light
of his photocopier.
3.
In the mid–nineteenth century, the largest centre
in Ontario. The city of Cobourg,
and the stretch of two centuries to finally evolve
from quiet lakeside
to quiet lakeside. What the poodles in the state of Oregon
and Wisconsin combined
had dreamt into being. The conspiracy
that followed. What it had most likely been
all along.
4.
Happy sixtieth birthday: neither words
nor mere numbers
but outlaws
and vaudeville stars, performing
on an endless, perfect stage. The concession stand
is raining. The books have gained sentience,
and can’t sell themselves fast enough.
Poodle.