There's a story behind this poem. Alarmed, some years back, I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, and I scrawled out this poem from beginning to end, word for word as it is right here. I remember thinking that it was strange that I used the phrase, "noel voice," but I left it in there, because I liked the sound of it. The next morning, I woke up to the phone ringing, and I soon found out that my friend Noel had passed away that very night. Just one year earlier, on the same day, he and I went to the Cincinnati Entertainment Awards together. He wasn't a touring musician, but he adored all music, so I took him with me, and he was so excited that night -- just beaming ear to ear. He was pale and thin with black hair, so handsome and unique. I like to remember him that way. Sorta feel him with me right now.
Frying Pan
He loves a pale Leo
in November.
His oxen senses,
his driving team,
pull him
into the dream of her
but today,
like yesterday,
there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.
True, her axle neck
barely holds
her head and heart
together.
And listen
to the sound
of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape
is no pear.
In her hand,
there rests
no frying pan.
Nearly all month,
he has been loping
across the room --
ape-living;
here, empty hands
and empty arms
forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes
for a strange,
warm winter.
Home is pretty
this time of year.
He loves a pale Leo
in November.
Dear god, the awake of it.
C.A. MacConnell
