Rilke’s Allergy
How to describe a hayfield without sneezing?
Or portray the sunlight slanting through the barn
as more than dust motes aswarm?
Even the cat running the fence above the flowers
caused him significant problems.
Rilke’s allergy dominated his senses,
if not his poetry. Seldom discussed are his
"Ode to a Sodden Handkerchief" or
"Your Lips Are as Red as My Eyes, My Love."
And no one seems to care about his letters
to a young allergist, suffering though they may be.
Late in the Game
Another season come and gone
without a hit, without a run,
without a homer o’er the fence
imagined once by circumstance.
No uniform in sunset glow.
No leaping catch, no hurried throw.
No home run trot, no pickoff toss.
Time got the win. Age took the loss.
Cartoon Evolution
You’ll have to go on inner wind
to get to the heart of the cartoon monkey.
To see the numbers dashed and sinned.
The alphabet, your average junkie.
And down the stairs of other worlds.
And up into the light of silence.
There’s your shadow, locked and curled.
Clouds are tame. Sun is violence.
You’ll have to go on slow rewind
to get to the vein of the masters passed.
On line, the winters, grey and blind.
Long falls of marching underclassed.
And down the pipe of lifelike smoke.
And up the stream of bloody sorrow.
Cartoon monkey beats the joke.
Turns into a man tomorrow.
Third Owner’s Preamble
It belonged to a little old lady.
That hole is just a decoration.
It’s supposed to smoke like that.
The shedding is part of its charm.
The wobble will self correct in time.
This is the original paint.
That smell only happens on hot days.
The nicks can be fixed really easy.
It never came with that part.
Only the surface is cracked.
It was serviced regularly.
Those stains are a part of the pattern.
That sound goes away when it warms up.
I wouldn’t sell it if I weren’t moving.
