ART HISTORY

Studying in Rome, the painter Fragonard 

Called up the ghost of Michelangelo 

Who, unable to sculpt, had become 

A cicerone for spirits visiting Rome.

When not telling misleading stories 

To tourists, Michelangelo haunted 

The studios of the French Academy

Jeering at the students painting there.

He agreed, in return for a one-third share 

Of Fragonard's soul, to allow the painter 

To use some figures from the Sistine Chapel

As servants. Back in France one of them 

Sneaked into The Dream of Love 

And slept right through the Revolution. 

Though still asleep, he's kept up

With the times, has acquired an agent

And will, for a suitable fee, dream 

About whatever you wish.

M. P., ESQ.

My old office remakes itself;

It's large enough that a long table,

Useful for collating, and a couch, 

Useful for falling asleep,

Are almost lost in it. 

There are three desks, one of them

Austere, neat, functional.

That one isn't mine.

The cabinets burst with files;

Smoke from a pipe lost since 1986

Dances in the air. Memos 

Wait to be ignored. A scarecrow

Sits at my desk, writing letters

Making calls, turning to the window,

To watch the new moon rise,

Though he knows this brings bad luck.

Marvin comes in, sits on the couch,

Says "The stories I could tell you

About this couch!" He never told them 

But I'd not mind hearing one tonight.

BETTER

Since he scorns dishonesty, my better self

Called at three in the morning to tell me

He'd prepared a resume and was thinking

Of finding someone else to be better than.

We've been through this before; usually

He waits until the sun's risen. Perhaps

The fact that he no longer has a shadow

Has changed his sleeping habits. I assume

My worse self will dissuade him again.

My better self went off once for ten months

Saying he needed to get himself together.

Some days friends filled in; some days temps --

Mostly students from the tough school on Baker --

Did a few hours as their community service.

My worse self was quite helpful. He read

The manual and we took turns being better

Except on weekends, when we were both worse.

SAMUEL PALMER'S "CORNFIELD BY MOONLIGHT WITH THE EVENING STAR"

Shadow stands on sudden feet; the walker 

With the broad hat must have a dog

This night not meant for walking alone.

The wheat-ghosts whisper: 

The evening star grew wings

And now the roaring moon's on fire! 

The dog made from shadow, still half-made,

Turns his head towards the moonlit man

Walking a road there because he walks it

His high, crooked staff held before him.

PICTURE

My father drew angels quite well -- 

Stickmen, with wings and benign,

Wary expressions. Occasionally  

He drew wolfmen, sometimes 

Standing quietly in a crowd 

Or singing as part of a chorus.

So far as I know, none of his pictures 

Include both angels and wolfmen

Though the combination seems natural.

What if, times being hard, each

Had to perform the other's job?

God might give His wolfmen messages 

When they weren't loitering in Heaven,

Howling extravagant songs of praise 

While angels grew fur at the whim

Of some deceased moon's cessant ghost.

If I were my father I'd draw you a picture 

Of these angels and wolfmen meeting 

To exchange tales and sympathy. You'd say

"Yes, this and no other way is just how I

Believe they must have looked."

EPIPHANY (R)

In a strongly-worded communique
Eight leading religions and the Apple Corporation
Have expressed concern over God's recent decision
To manifest Himself as a posse of high school girls.
"While we continue to venerate and revere You,"
The statement begins, "we must admit we are troubled
By Your appearing among us as seven girls
At Mattawan High School. With the greatest respect, Lord,
Are You out of Your Mind?" At a press conference,
Shondanique Davies, who has emerged as spokesman
For the collective God, commented "Whatever."
She admitted there were some problems in adjusting
To being a collective Supreme Deity. "Rhonda,
For example. She needs to make up her mind:
In or out? One day she's everyone's best friend
And the next she walks by like We're not even there."
Rhonda Jacobson has been unavailable for comment
While She studies for  an exam in World History II.

AN ADOLESCENT

My mother's death

Will be thirteen soon.

I've no idea

What to buy it.

When it was small

We got along well;

It was endlessly curious

About its origin

"Tell me about her;

How short was she?

What did you talk about

That last time? Did

She talk about me?"

It's different now

Always languishing

Against walls

Pale-eyed, thin, too tall

For its own strength.