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 Forthcoming 2008 |
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New Work – Poem Drafts Fifty Years Later
Five are dead -- a suicide, a bar fight, the rest from cancer. Seven didn’t come, 34 did -- two in wheel chairs, one on crutches.
We watched a DVD of images from the 50s, hooted at photos of us at 17, at 67, told stories grown more colorful over time. We were happy with each other, nothing new to prove.
John asked if I remembered being forced to box him, and how scared we both were. I remembered, but had thought I was the only one afraid.
Sparky asked if it was alright to call me “Bud Crud.” I smiled. 50 years later it was okay.
I saw you in your coffin last week-- the ER gurney and the beeping IV monitor became burled wood, urns of flowers; instead of matted hair, damp gown, foot sticking out from tousled sheets, you were in a tailored suit, coiffed, made up.
Now you’re at the center of our circle of clasped hands while your daughter puts keys, vodka, a single cigarette by your side -- artifacts for your journey. You look better than last week, but you don’t.
Resin D’etre
My teeth are crumbling. Like chalk held too tightly against the board, #24 and 25 lost their tips one week. One went in morning granola and yogurt, the next in evening seared tuna, both providing an unexpected extra crunch. Then, a chunk’s come out of #2’s side while it was doing its work on a hot, fresh roll, left a gap like a vertical pothole. It was patched rather than resurfaced like I only had limited miles to go. |
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