Transcript
A (0:00)
Oh, Gekko. I just love being able to file a claim in under two minutes with a Geico app. Could you sign a.
B (0:05)
Sign what? The app.
C (0:06)
Yeah, sure.
A (0:07)
Oh, it rubbed off the screen when I touched it. Could you sign it again?
B (0:10)
Anything to help, I suppose. Get more than just savings. Get more with Geico.
D (0:16)
Oh my gosh. Have you been to Marshall's lately? They have all the brand name and designer pieces you love, but without the jaw dropping price tags. Alright, so here's the you should never have to compromise between quality and price. And at Marshall's, you don't have to. Marshalls believes everyone deserves access to the good stuff and that's why their buyers hustle around the clock. To make it happen for you, visit a Marshalls store near you or shop online@marshalls.com.
C (0:49)
I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slowdown. As a writer, I'm always jotting things down, taking notes, making lists. More and more I use the notes app on my phone, but for years I scribbled on whatever scraps of paper I could find, carbon copies from my checkbook, receipts pulled from my wallet, even napkins in a pinch. The method has changed, but my impulse is the same. To hold onto something before it slips away. Today's poem is a favorite of mine for its associative leaps, the way it carries us from image to image, memory to memory. I admire the way it uses the language we encounter in our lives and to make those leaps. Road signs, the names of streets and flowers, the lists we find in our pockets. Animal Prudence by Kathy Fagan. Mice drink the rainwater before dying by the poison we set in the cupboard for them. They come for the birdseed. And winter is so gray here, the sight of a single cardinal can keep us warm for days. We'll justify anything. And by we, I mean I. And by I, I mean we. With our man is the only animal who and our manifest destiny killers each of us by greater or lesser degrees. Instead of a gun or knife in my pocket there are two notes. Un witch, the dandelion reads one. I don't know what it means, but cannot throw it away. It is soft as cashmere. The other says, coffee, chocolate, birdseed. I should be extinct by now, except I can't make it onto that list either. Like toothpicks made of plain wood, some things are increasingly hard to find. Even when he was a young drunk going deaf from target practice, my father preferred picking his teeth to brushing them. My mother preferred crying. They bought or rented places on streets named Castle Ring, greystone, as if we were heroes in a Celtic epic. Our romanticism was earned and leaned toward the Gothic, but lichen aimed for names on gravestones far lovelier than our own. It seemed to last a long time, that long time ago. Finches pixelating the hurricane, fences, cars idling exhaust, dandelions bolting from flower to weed to delicacy. Like me, Egyptians prepared their dead for a difficult journey. Living is more I was going to say more difficult, but more alone will do imprudent, unlike art, always falling below or rising above the Aristotelian mean and France. A common rural road sign reads Animal Prudence. Purely cautionary. It has nothing to do with Aristotle but offers sound advice nonetheless. These days I caution my father more than he ever cautioned me. He hears his oral hallucinations better and shows greater interest. Sportscasters at ball games, revelers at the parties he insists on. He's got all his own teeth, so toothpicks must do the job. His pockets fill with them. There are always half a dozen rattling like desert bones in my dryer. I think of the mason who chiseled his face in the cathedral wall. He couldn't write his name. The yellow bouquets I'd offer my mother by the fistful also got their name in France. Dandelion, meaning teeth of the lion. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. And find us on Instagram @downdownshow and bluesky.downdownshow.org hey, it's Maggie. Every weekday, the Slowdown delivers the creativity and care of poetry to all free of charge, and your support makes it possible. Donating to the Slowdown is easy. Just go to slowdownshow.org donate to make your gift in less time than it takes to listen to an episode.
