LEMON

Tea was drunk with lemon and sugar;
One spoonful for the ascetics, two
If you treated yourself kindly.
If you were sick -- or my brother --
There might be a dollop of honey.
No one outside a book would ever
Drink tea with milk or without sugar.
When I meet my old self nothing
About me startles him more
Than my pouring warm milk
Into a cup of unsweetened tea.

ABOUT A.W.

Blind Anna, Sam's housekeeper,
Could not tell when dust
Had turned the rugs grey
But Sam never minded.
When she made him tea
Her finger at the rim
Warned her to stop pouring.
Her temper was bad.
Nights he couldn't sleep
They might talk until daybreak.
Dying, she asked him to provide
Some words appropriate

For a conversation with God.

A CUP OF TEA

While everyone else in that large family slept
My father would be awake in the attic
Studying perhaps, or writing imperishable things
Which have perished. After her hard day's work,
His mother would read old newspapers
In the kitchen. (She got full value from her papers
Never letting one go until she had read it all
The news, the ads, the serialized novel,
Advice, recipes and those strange short bits
Compositors used to make the columns even.)
A few hours before dawn she would go upstairs
And bring him some tea and perhaps a cookie.
Did she bring a cup for herself sometimes?
And what did they discuss, those nachtvolk?

IN A BOX

When I cannot write I grow cranky
So it was a relief when, towards midnight,
The FedEx driver brought me a large box
From the muse I hadn't seen for weeks.
It was mostly empty but God was in a corner.
I was nonplussed. I am not a religious poet
Despite the gods and saints and demons
Who populate my poems. Still, I do not court peril;
Muses are not to be ignored. God said nothing
But did not seem discontent.

                                                 In late August
The City empties. Baba Yaga was almost alone
Eating cherry pirogis in a Third Avenue dairy restaurant
Which closed in 1964. She waved me over.
I ordered borscht, a thing I cannot eat
In any other place. "The Muse has sent me God
In a box," I told her. She nodded, nothing
Surprises Baba Yaga. "What sort of box?"
"Large. Cardboard. No foam peanuts. Just God
Sitting in a corner."
                                      "Angry?"
                                                "He doesn't look angry."
"Not him; you."
                             "More puzzled. Why would the Muse
Send me God in a box?"
                                                "So you would let Him out
Of course."
                         "My father saw God, you know."
"Yes, you've written about it, more than once."
"You read my blog?"
                                        "From time to time.
Your father did not put God in a box.
But you do. Roust Him out, is my advice.
You limp already, what more do you think He'll do to you?"
"Turn me upside down? Invite worship? Kill me?"
"Pfoo; he killed you when you were born.
And look how that’s turned out for you!
Go home, boy; be polite. Make some tea
I have business to attend but I'll stop by later
And see how the two of you are doing."

DREAMS IN THE KITCHEN, DRINKING TEA

My father’s dreams grow tired of waiting for him

They sit, complaining, over endless cups of tea

“Three years dead now, and another three months almost;

What ails the man? Does he mean to stay dead?”

I knew most of them when they were younger, milder .

They waited on him patiently. He’d a day job then

And a night job. And, of course, a weekend job.

If he hadn’t sneaked extra hours into the day

He’d have had no time for his children;

He always had time for them. “Don’t get sentimental!”

Warn his dreams. “Our frail brothers went with him

But we remain. Find work for us! Or make more tea.”