It turns out that a writer I've never much liked
Had a chicken when she was six years old
That walked backwards. This apparently made
A fair stir; there was a newsreel about the two of them.
Knowing this is a relief. If her ghost comes by
Wanting to know what I think of her books
I'll say "Nemind that. Talk to me about chickens."
From their high gallery the women
Look through the pierced wall
At row after row of small ghosts
And Death himself, wrapped in a shawl,
His bony fingers clutching an old siddur
At which he never glances.
A debate, of course, breaks out;
Some say that if God asks them
They'll remind Him that some things
Can not simply be forgiven.
The ox pauses, one hoof in the air;
The girl leading him by a thin rope
(Which he could break in a second if he chose)
Has stopped and looks off into space
She hears something or has just, perhaps, interceped
A message meant for you but delivered
To her, nearly two centuries away
Just as the afternoon turns to evening
Near the sixty-sixth station of the Kisokaido Road.
The angel assigned to check on Schrodinger's cat
Has had her job since 1935. After each visit
She submits a pre-printed form that says
"Schrodinger's cat is/is not/is not not alive."
Under "Additional Notes" she sometimes writes
"Changed litter. Fed. Cat wants to know
Why Schrodinger never takes a turn in box;
Told her I don't make rules and have never
Had a raise or been named Employee of the Month."
An angel comes by now and then
And knocks on the box, saying
"Cat! Are you alive?"
The cat says "yes" or "no"
Or "yes and no" or "neither yes
Nor no" or, if it's feeling cranky,
"Who is it wants to know?"
When I was in college I wrote
Any number of poems in which Death and I
Were close friends. In some we rode motorcycles;
(The wind blew his cowl back as we sped along;
How hard he worked to keep his robes untangled!)
In others we wandered or fought or looked for jobs
Or called each other on the phone or looked at stars
Until we fell --almost -- into the sky.
I haven't written such poems in years.
The Death I deal with now is young, efficient
Humorless; he wouldn't know
One end of a scythe from the other.
