Poem 53: Near as I can tell

Near as I can tell

being a poet means

sharpening a pencil

at 2 a.m. by lantern light

with a jar of hard cider

by your side, because 

you can't sleep.

It's that you think this

is a good idea,

that you want to write down

the sound of the saxophone

playing at the top

of Poet's Seat Tower

one summer night, months

ago. Pencil shavings

are deliciously analog, 

and it's better than worrying

about the price of cord wood

or what your wife said

to you last night, in a fit 

of pique. You think

of mussels, blue cheese,

wild apple cider.

You think of yeasts.

You think of the meaning

of spirit, what is left

after the fermentation is done.

It all looks better

by lantern light -- all the breaks,

all the lines. You can't sleep

because you're fermenting.

The night is just the place

where it's only you.

The neighbors are all sleeping.

An old lullaby mix plays

faintly over the baby monitor.

It plays for you, like the saxophone.

The cider is half decent.

Yours will be better. It will taste

like the whole tree -- twigs

and all.

Poem 52: For Jim Foley

“Beheaded,” I heard

on the radio in Canada,

driving home.

New York tabloids

stamp your name

in dark Helvetica.

Your death tells us

Everything they think

We need to know

About Syria.

Scrubbing the floor,

the rag I’m using was once

a t-shirt; it reads

“UMass Basketball.”

Once, I hit the shot

On the floor at half time

And climbed back up the stands

To high fives with all the guys.

Basketball, Boyden gym:

the gray standard-issue shorts

we wore then, writers

on the pick and roll.

You were fiction, I

was poetry. Our paths hardly

crossed. Only after grad school,

journalism called us both.

I went local and you, global.

In the newspapers now, you

are always wearing aviator shades,

flak jackets. In my memory, you

always had a square jaw, perpetual

shadow, that deep, gentle voice.

I didn’t know

you that well,

I didn’t know

we were almost

the same age,

I didn’t know

I should have been

paying attention

to the number of days

gone missing, to

the blue mosque door,

the Arabic graffiti on the walls,

the labyrinth of bombed out buildings

and rubble, the sound

you hear in the turret

when you take fire.

For you I’d like to drink away

the deadlines at father’s hours

at a bar in a sleepy town.

I’m convinced, no,

I’ve convinced myself you

were there, and I

I gave you five.

Poem 51: Letter to Brooklyn

I've walked
across your bridge,
worn your beer shirt.
Local. From this old river
town in the hills, to you
old river town by the sea.
The naval fleet passing betwixt,
an orchard with a Victrola,
bottles of bad apples, drops,
sparkling, foil, kissing.
Syncopated, discordant, blue.
Once, on the stairs in a walkup
what I wanted to say. But.
Know this. Out in the provinces,
some of us have stayed
amongst the moss and brick
and running. The water even
flows.

Poem 50: Spring Comes to the Candle Store

Tomorrow, it will be April, I said to the woman greeting us on our way into the store. Have we been here before? Oh yes, this is our indoor playground. Baseball hat, my two-year-old son said to me, back inside our front door, getting ready to go. Opening day. The flagship candle store is all animatronic singers, gunnite cobblestone floors, and twinkling lights on the ceiling. Today the soap bubbles blown down in the Bavarian evergreen grove are strangely comforting: at least here, the snow is fake and we can pretend winter is quaint. We change diapers, we meet Mommy, we stand on the bistro tables and watch the indoor fountain. It's spring, so I'm thinking of opera and frolic. Of Hart Crane in an apple orchard, drinking hard cider and listening to jazz records. As we walked past the towers of beach scented candles, Tone Loc rapped "you can be my queen, if you know what I mean, if you let me do the wild thing" over the store speakers. We buy nothing. We brought our own snacks. On the way out, the man at the door said, At least it's not snowing here. My son and I paused under the eave -- he was picking up rocks to throw onto the deck -- so I could point out the little green shoots poking out from the soil beds. Look, I said. We are almost there.

Poem 49: Grit

On a bluff above town, a man sits

In his car, eating French fries 

From a bag. The graffiti inside

The tower features a moth

And beckons you to jump.

I keep noticing the vinyl siding

Of the houses, crowded in

And leering at the street.

When do the crusty gray

Snow banks finally melt?

Where do you suppose 

That ambulance is heading?

The road bends; that's why

You can't see the police station.

There are two McDonald's 

In town. One next to the tire

Place with the inspirational

Signs. None of this goes

Anywhere. Always, you can stand

On the bridge, looking down

At the river and see that

Little island with the tree

That bends in high water.

Poem 48: Still Life With Tennis Trophy

Sometimes, the burnish against the wood paneling
suggests a rustic cabin, when sitting on the ground,
helping put on boots, looking up. There is the bookshelf,
a cookbook for poor poets. Turkey feathers
in a glass vase, my grandmother's candelabra.
Once, we pulled a table by the stove and ate
potatoes by candlelight. The mantle clock, stopped
at 11:10, with a newspaper clipping taped beside.
I won the trophy in doubles, defeating my dad.
The pedestal is shiny and green. The mantle
is painted brick red, the glove rests
on the ash can, black like we saw in Columbus
in an art museum without labels, in a corridor
bookstore, in a glass stein restaurant.
Sometimes the freesia dries and droops,
Sometimes we force the forsythia.
Perhaps we should add a jar of sparkling
Cider, a fire in the stove. We'll burn old
essays, we'll consider the crushed brick
they top dress tennis courts with.
I think it's biere de garde, with the woman
on the front, liberty always has bared breasts.
A court in Versailles, which David painted:
the men all salute, while light pours in from above.
In Boston, where America and France
muralled together there's a gold dome, and
bronze ducks. March days there, too.
Wool socks hang on the gate. The ballet
trophy is in first position, my daughter
was so proud, she wanted ours together.
Some days it's hard to get her boots on,
some days it's hard to get out the door.

Poem 47: Kinkadean

We are always in dusk
On streets pleasantly cloaked
In a half dark, and a light
buzzing from the windows.
It is not fearful, nor lonely.
Loneliness is what I would expect.
The sun lingering an hour later
in the afternoon. Those canvasses
in that store in St. Augustine,
they were all too obvious for us,
inauthentic. I, too, glow
indistinctly. To the coming night
I present a yellow warmth,
all goodness and homily.