Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The idea required somebody
older and if not wiser
at least less fastidious
They placed a stack of folders
in my outstretched hands
and sent me home early.
I spent the entire weekend
avoiding the task,
carrying the folders from room
to room, setting them on the table
while I ate, placing them in the chair
beside me while I watched the television
and even taking them to bed.
On Monday everyone wanted to know
what I thought. I told them
I could live with it.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Explaining Baby Moons
His auto eroticism begins
when he pulls into the driveway,
hot under the hood after a long drive.
He’ll shut the engine off, listen
to its ticks as if they were sighs,
a bucket of soap already coupling
with the dirt. Unwinding the hose
to rinse the car, he’ll flash
on that last pothole and shudder,
how close he came to ruining everything.
When he inspects the wheels and fenders
they’ll be wet so he can chart
the old dimples and dents
he's memorized like constellations,
anticipating the next disaster.
He’ll wax nostalgic -- ah, 1965,
polishing chrome and cleaning glass
until all that’s left is to step back
and see himself in his pleasure.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Jerome David S.
For half his life he got it backwards,
hiding out so nobody could ask
what was going on inside him.
He was like a rural mailbox
with the outgoing flag
Half a century of seclusion
because he invented a boy
that talked too much.
Said things in such a way
people were shocked
and at the same time curious
so the real Jerome lived
as if he were a character
while the boy he created
that wore his innocence
under a goddam red hunting hat
still lives a full New Yorker’s life.