At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
Let me say that love will not
let me alone. If it has let you alone, go back
and find it where you hid it under a scrim
And that is the way with love.
Speak only when you cannot help it.
However strange and vibrant the sound.
Now I have given away all my rage.
Watch the young stride ahead of me into their own mistakes.
Fenster McGraw is crawling out the back window of his lover’s house and stumbling into the alley pulling up his pants, and is spotted by the ever vigilant widow Winnie Wildwood with her nineteenth century naval spyglass who’s had her suspicions about that Wilson woman anyhow
Finally, a small wind to move the curtains.
Hot in this upstairs room. Outside,
the dogs sleep on the cool concrete floor
of the garage.
When he called for help,
they put him on hold
longer than he could stand
and he broke
the phone in half.
I asked my grandmother after he left what was wrong with him. “The war,” she said acidly.
If my mother had not been an alcoholic, I might not have been a poet.