ALTERATION

When he was young his shadow 

Bullied him, making him 

Stand in certain lights

Or assume odd postures

To amuse other shadows

When he was old, though,

Who but his shadow

Wandered the streets

Bringing back the stories

And scraps on which they lived?

TIME

This night is too long by

Two minutes the moon

Paused to read 

Engraved words

On an old tin watch

DISEMBODIED VOICE

Dying, my father found himself on air 

At the Brooklyn College Radio Guild. 

Since it was  1946 again and a holiday 

Deceased and almost deceased staffers 

Had been invited back. With no script 

He told stories and urged listeners

To appreciate the Dodgers and trolleys 

Since they'd both someday be gone.

MUSICIANS

At my behest the woman, 

Dead these many years, 

Dances on to the stage

Wears a pale yellow dress,

Plays a banjo, sings a song.

Because I ask it of him 

My high school principal 

Shoots his cuffs and invites

Scott Joplin, whom he once met,

To join him at the piano.

Well and good but who asked

The skinny girl with a guitar 

I watched fifty years ago

For nine, maybe ten, minutes

To play so loudly, furious 

At being among the dead?

HORSE

My father joined the Brooklyn College Radio Guild 

As a writer but everyone did everything there 

So he acted and sold ads and read the news

He was so good at clopclopping coconut shells 

That horses sometimes turned up in shows

Just so my father could bring one on at a gallop

Then slow down and slow down and slow down

And finally stop with an expressive whicker.

HERITED

The beadle's job is not to

Appear in poems or as staffage

Adding proportion and

A bit of animation to a painting.

He does these things for me

Out of sheer good nature.

He never gossips never says 

Why my father, of all men,

Should have had a beadle

Whom I inherited nor why 

The gods intended for him

Unending woe, but beadles

And gods seldom agree.

STUNG

 A bee whisperer, hired to tell the hive

Of a death in the family decides 

To break it gently to them but they,

Knowing of it already, plan

To attend the funeral where

They'll sting the beadle -- once before

And once just after the service.

COURT ROUTINES

Every dawn a large angel, his head bent 

To avoid scraping the ceiling, brings Shah Rukh

Six undeniable truths. At dusk a smaller angel

Wraps the truths in black wool and a demon

Smaller still, carries them away.

Once the moon fully rises three old men

Come sit by his bed, whispering lies

So the Shah may fall asleep at last.

 

ASYLUM

The orderly died long ago of some disease 

Which you won't find now or at least

Not living under the same name. Still,

His shadow makes the rounds of

The deserted hospital whose high ceilings 

And empty beds make it attractive

To ghosts who'd otherwise be reduced

To haunting bowling alleys and billiard halls.

You can't keep echoes out of such a place;

The shadow doesn't try but softly wakes them 

Disposing of the dead ones decently.

HER AGAIN

November fourth. Outside my house 

A goddess grown old leans on her spear 

Blinking in the thin morning light

After another night spent 

In the company of feral shadows 

And men willing to offer prayers 

To whoever buys the next drink.

An untidy heap of dirty feathers 

Becomes an owl standing awkwardly 

Behind her. He sees me watching 

And shakes his head.

 

ON SET

Suppose God a director who must

Move infinitely fast since He 

Must be always watching, coaching,

Ordering everything everywhere.

"A bit  more indeterminacy, electron!

Remember -- location or velocity

Never both! Good work, dead leaf,

But do you think you could look

A bit more forlorn? Smooth stone 

At the bottom of the ocean, get ready;

Only six thousand years until 

You're washed on shore. (Cue the child 

Who'll toss it back again). People?

People? Go on with what  you're doing;

I'll get back to you."

ON THE ROAD

Having often read that if

You wish to find God in Rome 

You must bring Him with you 

I've set off. The whole way

He's complained. The shrine

I've set up in the back seat

Of my Honda Civic is not

Gaudy enough; my praisesong

Isn't sincere and I sing it 

Off-key. To amuse Himself

He's created new sorts of creatures

Out of fire or ash or chicken-wire

Who cast multi-colored shadows

Or juggle in their sleep. After dying

They move to the glove compartment

To dwell among shredded maps 

And insurance papers. To be fair, God 

Has so far paid most of the tolls

And split the cost of gas with me.