The Man Who Is Worn to Pieces — Selected Poems
Sheetrock Dreams
Let the night come
with its vague worries,
its sheetrock dreams,
its doorway perceptions.
I found a way back once
and lost it presently.
There were times
when I could cup my hands
to receive life
in its overflowing richness.
Darkness in the wee small hours,
quiet rooms,
gurgling sounds in the walls,
the upstairs neighbors
pitter-pattering,
the autumn air outside
trying to permeate
the apartment’s walls.
I’ve given in to nothing,
and I’ve given it all over
to the night.
I can’t sleep,
and so the night goes on,
and morning
is right around the corner.
Another Hundred Yards
Walk… like an old man.
Maybe I’ll see Alicia.
The shadow of my cane
is moving slowly
as the strap dangles.
Green light makes a left turn.
There’s no such thing
as walking too slow.
That white motion light is bright.
I have a lot on my mind,
and it’s hard to process.
It’s all new to me.
Make it new, he said,
each day.
Degas… Manet… Freud… Bacon…
aching…
the green grass…
sigh…
I dread the steps coming up,
the cracked sidewalk,
the five-petaled leaf.
What am I talking about?
I’m trying to say
I’m almost at the corner,
and then I have another hundred yards to go.
The tree is sheltering the sky
at 7:07 p.m.
A walker perched on the porch
against the red bricks.
It’s okay.
It’s all going to be okay.
I’m learning.
I’m still learning at age 64.
It’s my knee and it’s my neck.
He’s walking his dog
as he glances over
to see me struggling.
Like an American flag
unfurled in the wind,
depicted on the video screen,
falling, falling.
Not so much from grace.
I think of you.
How I left it off.
I was perturbed, wasn’t I?
Like I had all the answers
and I didn’t want to listen.
A closed mind anticipates
the learning to come.
Like orange spray paint
on the concrete sidewalk.
It initiates the thought.
The orange light bulb
is obscured by the green-leafed tree,
like filtered light at night.
Before and After
“Good night, good night.
Sure is dark, isn’t it, Patty?”
“Sure is, kiddo.”
“Even though those orange lights
add a nice sheen to the roadway
and the grassy knoll.
You don’t hear that term
much too often
except in the one context.”
“Yeah, you mean the president, right?
Getting shot?”
“Of course.
When else do you hear it?
Almost never.
That was sure a dark day, huh?
Changed everything.”
“Sure was a clear demarcation
before and after.
Although at the time,
who could say?”
“You couldn’t say.
All you could do
is throw up your hands
and say,
I don’t know.
And leave it at that.”
