TROPE

 

Since I am generally held to be

The Good Son the smart money is that

I'm actually evil or that, put to the test

I will crumble under pressure. At best,

I can hope to prove a weaselly hypocrite

Or to have a serious drinking problem.

HAMMER

 

Sometimes, do you see, an angel

Would come by with a hammer and

Knock down a house -- he'd say he had

Orders but I think he just woke feeling

Mean. He'd work steady, stopping

For a cigarette or two (Angels

Don't have souls and don't get

Lung cancer) and leave the district

When the house was down, Once in a ways

Gangs of angels - - three of them, maybe four --

Would come and build another house there

Or the same one that had been there

Or a house that had been there a long time ago

THE WAY OF IT

 

Somewhere a shadow

Digs my grave. He's in no hurry

But the thing gets slowly deeper.

I try to distract him, pretend

To feel sympathy. "Poor chap!

Out in such weather!" 

I offer to trade a tea-spoon

For his shovel saying

He'd be a fool to refuse

An elegant utensil, made

From genuine silver-plated tin.

When he's not looking,

I kick some dirt back in.

DIRECTION

 

There was a time, years ago, when I

Was constantly asked for directions

Then it stopped -- my look became

Less trustworthy perhaps. Now

I'm being asked again, in languages

I don't know; I answer anyway

Really, I'll have to follow someone

To see where they wind up.

A FEW WORDS

 

Fog. Shadows take the place

Of workers, safe at home.

DAY WORKER

 

Going to my job I'd usually

Walk through a passage that

Was either a dark, narrow street or

A broad, well-lit alley. Partway,

The shadow I wore at home

Would slip off, nodding to the utility player

Who'd dog my steps at work. Protocol

Demanded I pretend not to notice.

SOMETHING YOU COULD DANCE TO

 

A small bird -- possibly a female robin --

Called to me that she was the legal representative

Of Sara Teasdale and that I should know

Her client had insisted that her books of poems

Include a notice that "For permission to set

Any of the poems to music, application

Should be made to the author." I said I

Had no intention of setting anyone's poems to music

Any anyway Sara Teasdale has been dead

Since 1933. The bird said "We're working on that and,

In any event, we're putting you on notice. There is

Something about your eyes we don't trust; something

That says  'I wonder what the October poem

Would sound like as a maxixe?'"