Poem 41: Sputter

At least I know
how
to pile kindling
how to twist newsprint
to strike sulphur
At 63 degrees and wakeful
At wondering
about regrets, about real estate
The wind runs up the mountain
Often, he reckons
Coals, ash, embers
What is the job of a father
to fold expertly a diaper
to wake up bleary
to know what lonely sounds
the night makes
Among my special skills
pause, restart
crouch and watch
the flickering flame
All the other things, I forget
what I'm doing
how to keep
What's important is the draft
oxygen and fuel
But always, there is interrupt

Poem 40: Fourteen Lines

You were waiting for me, pink
Silk and black dye in my dream
Though it was bitter, bitter cold and the baby
Though the other night, the water

We waited in the sunlight for the baseline
In the room, the phone never rang
And the nurse brought us juice
The numbers on the monitor were all over

And the student with the broken finger
Despite all the pillows and the coughing
In my dream you reminded me

In the kitchen I remembered
The turning over and the 2 a.m.
I'm glad he was not born on caucus day