poem

to the one who jacked up my car in order to steal my catalytic converter, but then didn’t

Not sudden flash of conscience nor your flight
will save you in the eyesight of the lord,
you know. He sees intents and purposes.
He knows the secret turnings of your heart,
and yea He looks not kindly down on quitters!

Far worse than theft, you’ve done but half a job
and then you’ve gone and done it poorly. While
for two long moonless nights this week my car
stood unattended off the ground you skulked
about and nursed that stitch in your side.

Now I can’t blame you (much) for running scared
the moment that you thought you heard footsteps
approach. I’d do the same if I were in
your place, which anyway I wouldn’t be —
I’d have had at least two lookouts, signals pre–

arranged, diversions, varied alibis,
a safe house. I’d have cased the joint so long
I’d know like family who parks their cars
here, license numbers, favorite foods; I’d know
their noses itched ten minutes before they sneezed

— but that’s entirely beside the point.
Whatever honor is among us thieves,
it’s not in getting caught. So by all means
do save yourself. But take a little pride!
Leaving tools about is just unprofessional.

[…] true community, ie., a group of rational beings associated on the basis of a common love […]

W.H. Auden, the enchafèd flood

muggins

for GW

You say a people lived who counted not
by peaks but by the valleys of their hands:
eight passes in between the knuckles, see,
and clever bastards, even did their math
that way. What would they make of this whole pack
of nonsense we call “playing cards”? I think
they’d count sixteen two, sixteen four,
and take the extra point at thirty-two.

For only landed English gentry with
ten fingers, too much time on hand, and God!
a poet too could make up all these rules
that add up nowhere else but on this board.
At least when we play, taking points off one
another, we don’t play for petty cash —
just honor: who, when it’s late, can best keep score.

cassiopeia

Lady from your armchair look
Down indulgently upon
Us your courtiers, and take
Light what whispering you hear
As we shuffle through the night
Far below the atmosphere
Where you, circumpolar, make
Court and home. Judge us on
Our small lies, on the book
That our best intentions write,

On the least emphatic held
Of our several public views:
Leave our certainties aside.
Lady half obscured by cloud
Shift a dark and weary arm,
Roll your chafed wrists. Think how
Centuries ago the wide
Cruel the lashing sea refused
You the same — and you to tell
The difference between two harms —

Took you at your loudest word,
Bound your greatest earthly pride
To a promintory of
Even greater vanity.
Lady then forgive our past
And our present boasting. See
That when time comes, push to shove,
We might meet our neighbor’s eye
Of superiority cured,
Free of ancient chains at last.

before the fall

I craned my neck to catch the glint
Of afternoon off my new prize:
Two black and shining fenders curved
Between quick turning wheels and me
And preened above the rain–slick street.

Behind as well two magpies flit,
No doubt all jealous; watched me rise
Up off the saddle, head still turned,
Then tip! — reflectors coming free
To glitter on the rain–slick street.

poem

for Mom on Mother’s Day

When young, a sunflower at night returns
To face the east, anticipates the sun
It follows daytimes, adoration in
Its wide–eyed inflorescence; comes to learn
The aspects that are likeliest to earn
A warm full precious ray like laughter; comes
To want near nothing but to daily run
The same experiment, to daily turn
Each stream of blinding light sent undeserved
Back on itself; and comes to one by one
Unfold its own illuminations in
Small gratitude, its petals as a mirror,
To give and give (as I to you) the sun
Reflection of its brightness and its love.