Little Pointers
John G. Young, M.D.
You were there
on my back doorstep,
did not move
when I approached,
so I picked you up
in my winter gloves,
brought you
to the warmth inside.
You sat motionless
in my hand,
looked at me.
Diane’s therapist
took your picture with Freddie,
who almost completely blind,
got to point
like the bigger dogs.
I told Diane that
this bird
must be a good omen
coming the day before
my one-man show.
I exhibited 78
paintings,
selected from a lifetime of work.
Many came to the
show,
but none sold that night.
The next week
I gave a poetry
reading
to a small gathering,
took the chance to tell our story
in poems accompanying the paintings,
let them h/bear the anguish
of living with disability—
Diane’s attempt to sing
in her birdcage,
Amy’s tilting to the
left to listen,
sensory mirror to Freddie
who barely sees with his right eye.
Today one painting
sold.
As I tried to sleep,
I pondered the
meanings
of the last several days.
Is self-expression
creative
if no one hears or sees it?
I thought of the
little bird
who came to our Krankenhouse
at 1709
who seemed to know
this was the place to
come.
This little bird
sat upon my fingers,
still as monk,
till I put it down
outside.
To my surprise
it flew up into our
tree
that is braced
against the wind
and emerges
through a hole in our
deck.
I then realized all
this
was not the point.