For Kurt Othberg
A Poem by Michael Kiefel
“Always the captain,”
his true love Susan and his best friend Loudon said of Kurt
on managing the sailboat,
not because Kurt demanded the role,
but because his commanding knowledge
of how to angle each sail to catch the wind
how to veer the craft was clear to all of them---
the wind and sea had met their match.
All that he undertook involved his quiet moves toward excellence,
even and especially his hummus
which was in itself such smooth sailing
of garlic and lemon juice spices and garbanzos,
who wouldn’t want to climb aboard this pleasure cruise,
go back for more no real hunger just mindless indulgence.
(How could Kurt, the rational scientist, create what could make you cray-cray?)
His garage would meet the Curtis Phillips Standard of Neatness:
not a spot of oil on the floor, not a socket wrench out of place,
however many hours Kurt spent fixing a valve or fine-tuning the timing,
just the way he’d check every jib as carefully as he would the mainsail on the mast.
When Kurt and Susan hosted an event, Kurt cheerfully navigated around the tables,
collecting empty bottles and finished plates,
and if folks were still dining, he’d ask if they needed a refill.
He’d lean back, tall and thin, smiling at the lively chatter and laughter,
happy to make sure everyone was taken care of.
Kurt would not be afraid of going down with the ship, but his leaving seems very much instead
a matter of checking the waters ahead, so that our hopes remain buoyant,
until we find our own mooring berth in the harbor.
---Michael Kiefel