My shadow said normally
I've better things to do
Than read poems but
I read yours about
Me juggling and I'll
Have you know that I
Am quite capable of
Washing dishes and when
I feel like it combing
My hair parting
It on the right
As for my not
Having money whose
Fault is that?
My shadow seldom
Seems to have money
He doesn't comb his hair
For months at a time
So far as I know
He's never washed a dish.
He limps but cannot
Remember to favor
The same leg I do.
Now someone --
Probably meaning well --
Has taught him to juggle.
He tries the hard stunts
On cloudy days
So I can't keep count
Of missed catches or jeer
At his pitiful reverse cascades.
Baba Yaga says she needs a cat but
Doesn't say what for. Ignore her ad.
St. Crescentia is planning an expedition
To the court of the King of Locusts.
Exciting but foolish; it's known everywhere
That the locusts have no king. Aesred
Wants a discrete cat able to carry messages
And perform miracles. This sounds promising
Aesred usually exists just on Wednesdays ;
Leaving you free to sleep on laptops
Purr loudly and do a bit of light haunting
The other nine days of the week.
Suppose unhappiness
To be a stone. Sisyphus
Carries it uphill. Michelangelo
Sees in it an elephant
Who, once freed, will lift
His outrageous trunk and
Challenge the Duomo.
But you, who no longer
Win smiles, put it in
Your pocket and check
Three times a day to see
If it's still there.
********
My father would
Successfully break eggs
Tapping them
With a fork. The eggs
Wanted to please him.
When I tap just so
The egg ignores me
Or just snickers.
My mother would
Crack eggs one-handed
Without looking
And without fail. This
I don't even try.
********
Sometimes the leech
Aspires and has
Composed but not submitted
Elaborate petitions
To the highest powers.
God, he has heard, has
Problems of His Own.
The station where trains
No longer call is filled
With angels -- tall, thin,
Tense. They look
Very like the ones
Stevie Smith drew. They
Perform no miracles but allow
You to use their sharp wings
To open cans from which
Soup pours out, assuming
There was soup in them
To begin with or some
Fleeing bit of Omnipotence
Muttered in passing
Let there be soup.
Every object wishes
You'd move it
Someplace else.
Every open door
Wants you to shut it.
Every shut door
Wants you to open it.
Shut drawers wish
To be open.
Open drawers do too.
There is no point
In being a button
If no one pushes you.
 |
Pilate's wife had a maid
Called Fluff who,
Meeting Satan,
Fell in love with him.
What if the other things
Happening then
Trials, scourgings,
Signs, wonders,
Crosses, sponges,
Spears and vinegar
Are distractions?
Keep your eye
On Fluff and
Her split-footed love.
