Saturday, October 29, 2016

Third Mug of Folgers

I'm drinking the third mug of Folgers
at 3.20 am, and "working on poetry"
by reading it: Dylan Thomas, Marilyn Hacker,
and you. Often I wish you were more prolific
of poems and e-mails, but your silences
make me cherish your words all the more:
words that live, that gladden and fortify,
pure as vespers at candle-lit St Ann's,
wiser than politicians, kinder than a blanket
knitted over long months by a loved one's hands,
calm as a cloister in this loud leap-year.

Alive in the Dead of Night

Bifocals lie on the kitchen table
with the left earpiece broken off.
I'm wearing drugstore cheaters--
better for the laptop screen.

Mr Coffee recites
his litany of drip
in black Latin.
Enough for three full mugs.

Air conditioner hums
in the next room.
TV intones
its bland Nunc Dimittis.

At 11 this morning,
Emily the Excellent
(as I've dubbed my therapist).
This afternoon,
I'll clean the apartment.

Coffee's done.

Down sleepy Route 60
a lone truck rumbles:
resolute, industrious,
headed toward sunrise.

Birds of Mrs Álvarez

Birds of Mrs Álvarez --
sun strong through slats
of venetian blinds.

I get up later than usual:
eight o'clock finds me still
in pajamas, unshaven.

I recall Roethke's line
I'm odd and full of love --
I've got that first part down!

Begin the day's doings,
I urge my old slow self
but linger at the keyboard.