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Tuesday, October 16, 2012

The Golden Beak

I am reading George Herbert for breakfast
I am having chocolate pudding for lunch with a dollop of Barchester Towers
I am pondering the literary value of blueberry pancakes
I am shooting the breeze with old Doc Williams beside the white chickens
I am writing sonnets about riotous blossoms and the loves of Dylan
     Thomas
I am taking life two minutes at a time
Actually more like ninety seconds at a time
I am embracing friends across the telepathic distances
I am editing anthologies of my favorite knock-knock jokes
I am taking anaphora to its uttermost limitations
I am going to Gail Ann’s for a sausage and egg sandwich
I am walking to West Medford across the Mystic Valley Parkway
I am becoming a Christian because of Marianne Moore’s example
I am contemplating proverbs with Thomas Merton in the rusted trailer in
     Kentucky

I salute all my friends from my workspace in suburbia
I introduce myself to the pastor of the Unitarian church
I ride the trains in search of enlightenment and loose women
I commit myself to shaving at least seven times a year
I declaim “Kubla Khan” in my best Boston accent
I am sixteen again in Latin class translating Catullus
Odi et amo quare id faciam fortasse requiris
I am fourteen again and sprinting past the librairies of Québec
I am eleven and dreaming dreams of release and liberation
I am twenty-one and lamenting the loss of innocence
You may say that this isn’t a poem but a glorified shopping list
And I tell you it’s the best I can do on a Sunday afternoon
In chilly December when the clouds are great lethargic armies
Invading my scenic precinct that I love so bloody much

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