It’s No Joke
there is a strange sort of humor
about growing old
as if it were funny to forget
where you parked your car
Category / Poetry
All That Is Holy
The earth does not care whether
we are nourished by her bounty or not,
or whether we notice her or not.
She flowers for herself alone,
bears fruit unto herself alone.
Returning to Alaska
Today I head north over water,
following something blindly
into the wilderness of ocean,
following something as primitive as love.
Your Own Best Lover
If you live alone long enough
your own life begins to make love to you.
It starts as casually as any friendship,
gifts appear,
All We
Hands converge
towards top
of clock on kitchen wall. Beneath,
table full of dips, smoked salmon,
Comeona’ My Kitchen
Push back the chrome dinette.
Slow dance on my linoleum
(clock radio knows the hits).
Tonight we cookin’.
Flat Poem
This the
Flat-ass truth. Cruisin’ down
Flatbush when Boom!
Flat tire. Gets out, hears music—third-floor
Guitar Propped Upright in My Study Corner
Mother’s violin waits in the attic,
wondering if it remembers how to sing.
Father’s songs (It meant he was happy)
hang in the air.
A Visit in West Haven
If I could say where I had been today,
describe a room holding its breath behind drawn, faded drapes,
hoarding its hope against the cruel demands of light.
If I could name the pleasantries punctiliously observed,
Thank You, Miss Barney
Thank you, Miss Barney
For not giving me credit
For those one thousand pages
For ten one hundred page books