Archive for March, 2008

They seemed to say, your office mates,
That you can hold that pretty pose as long as you like
But when the claim forms come streaming in
You’ll be in trouble.
That was it, I think.

I didn’t want
To wait in the crowded museum
Even the announcer said it wasn’t worth it
I didn’t want
To take the chaotic yoga class
My mat wedged against the wall
I didn’t want
To leave all the stuff in the car
Parked along the park
An invitation to smash and grab
So big deal I couldn’t lock the doors
After all this time
She was jeering at me from a block away
It’s bad karma to make fun of a brother’s ineptitude
Kids on the street were getting in
I had to shoo them off
But they gave me back my keys
Then I saw the binoculars were left on the roof
The roof! So there
If I’d locked up and walked away
Good-bye birdwatching

“Why was Joe outside crying this morning?
I’m going to use it for my morning’s gossip,” he said.
“Ask Joe,” she said.

Why aren’t we all outside crying?
I dreamed I was Homer Simpson pretending to phone
Art dealers about building an irregular six-sided pyramid.
It was a relief from the recurring explosives.
Most likely Joe wasn’t crying about a dream.
Nobody needs to be reminded of what’s been lost.
I used to have a green ’68 Dodge Coronet 440.
Why was Joe outside crying this morning?
I’m a little hollowed out, still hopeful
And I could cry along with Joe.

Remember that winter we crossed the river
In diving bells to avoid the shifting ice?
Like trying on elegantly embroidered wool trousers
Only to discover they have pajama feet.
We were all afraid of being called to account
But what could one really expect
Given the circumstances, the subpar coffee
And shouting in the street?

Who belonged to that gargantuan airedale
With the patchy fur and duct tape collar?
Not yours truly. I told the guys to drop me off;
I wasn’t going to stick up the gas station again.
I walked home through my childhood subdivision
And saw three boys with one dachsund on three leashes.

I smoked surreptitious cigarettes on the back of the train,
Rolled past ritzy lakeside locales
And listened to experimental theater
From behind a heavy plush curtain until
I had to look out to see
A rock band jamming TVs onto their heads.
The screens exploded in a cascade of flip books.
A pride of lions overran a game preserve
While I perched in a plum tree
And sawed off the limbs that overshadowed
The corner of the garden.
Very satisfying to prune
The branches that get in the way.
I recommend it, Joe.
Let’s go have that cry.

This is not a test
The trouble is not in your set
The Ol’ Perfesser has left the classroom
And is not expected yet
All that work you did for extra credit
Must be its own reward

Perfesser seems a little disgusted
Pacing and grousing and rewriting the living
But I’m confident we’ll bring him around

Arranged in a line on the long counter
Are his turntable and vinyl LPs
A classic black blocky phone
A candelabra for communicating
With outer space

Sift through the stuff in the basement
Moldy remnants of mid-century middlebrow
Stories of the Sea, American Theater magazine,
Archived TV shows about a kooky farm family
He tries on the old clothes, stiff and cracked
Tries not to feel too sick
About the defunct dramas
Ancient anxious forgotten
Americans