Puck

poem by Robin Pugh Yi

The Whistler is nearly extinct.
I can’t remember the last time I heard one.
A jaunty gray-haired man with a felt hat
whistling a polka or
“The Girl from Ipanema”
on his constitutional.
Someone’s hip mom trilling
“Dock of the Bay”
while she flips pancakes for
Saturday morning.
A philosophical hippy
like my father
attempting Smetana’s “Moldau.”

Whistled tunes used to blow in
through an open kitchen window,
drift down the office hall,
entertain us at the bus stop.

I don’t know how long
they had been gone
before I noticed.
Until an early autumn morning when
the cedar and maple-tinged air longs
for a whistle.

The houses and pedestrians
demand hesitation.
Whistling a happy tune
is no longer
whimsy, but
a solemn ritual,
revival of a lost art–
self-conscious, attention-drawing,
like wearing a kilt or bonnet or
felt hat.

Still, the air wants
“Me and Julio”
And I’m walking by a schoolyard
where none of the students
will recognize
the whistle solo
from bygone AM radio.
When I do put my lips together
and blow,
the birds,
breathing melodious homage
to their dinosaur ancestors,
seem to appreciate
the company.

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