Seeing my black boots, I thought
of how Dad put them outside
that Christmas we visited –
when his mind was going
and he draped a shroud
over my head – and my boots
were cold when I retrieved them.
And about how my uncle Mike
at a family reunion
put his arm in the photo
around the one who was missing
and said the next time might be
the last time
and it was.
And about how we’ll stand outside in a minute
watching a hearse go by,
and it will carry no one I’ve mentioned
thus far.
God, you’re supposed to be
a big bright
problem-solver
not my weak
little partner
scared as I am
here in the dark
Go lightly!
Smooth and easy
loving is what you need.
How did it get to be so late so early?
Of all that doesn’t happen, this does.
Why?
Is he warm?
Is he safe?
Is he happy?
Is he free?
It’s like scooping
oil from water hoping
to save the birds
Things I meant to write, remnants of dreams,
notes in my wallet, first lines that actually
made it followed by multiple cross-outs,
new starts on new pages, the opening
now gone as well, all of it collapsing
in thudding rhyme echoing
something I wrote a year ago.
Scratch, delete, rip,
crumple, toss, light
the damn basket on fire!
Is poetry a whipping-up
of something special, a
pulled voice
or a kind of trance?
I’ve never known what
a poem is.
My favorites sound like
nothing so much as
someone saying something
interesting.
But that can’t be
enough for a poem.
The worst are about
poetry itself.
Maybe those’re
not even poems.
Maybe they’re just
a baffled boy
seeking a trail.
“Don’t pick the plums.”
Till then I’d not noticed
how juicy they look.
