Whose Honors Include . . .

By Jeffrey Harrison

I’m the writer-in-residence
of my own residence,
the poet laureate
of my own back yard,
a dual position that can be
renewed indefinitely.
I hold the endowed chair
of the wingback chair
I inherited from my grandmother.
I’ve been honored
with the fellowship
of the birds around the feeder,
and each fall I receive
a grant from the trees
of more leaves
than I could ever need.
For as long as I can remember
I’ve been the executive director
of my own existence,
which will remain true
for as long as I can remember.
I was presented with a certificate
of distinguished achievement
from the Department of the Interior,
but then I woke up.
And as I shuffled down the hall
on my way to the bathroom
the window’s shadow
(cast by a light
the neighbors left on)
hung on the wall
like an honorary degree
inscribed not in Latin
but the shadows of leaves.