LITMIR.BIZ

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lemon pekoe tea.

      The bells ring on the tree then,

      of their own accord. But there are no movies,

      no Wonderful Lifes besides this one,

      which just happened

      as it sometimes does.

      Yeats, once a raven, haystack

      occasionally returns—

      not so flinty as he could be in life.

      He’s up for most sport, doesn’t seem

      to mind that he’s not very good

      at volleyball or field hockey—or that

      it’s tough to move in that suit, cravat,

      nez thing. He’s happy, and being tall

      helps in all kinds of ways. Don’t

      know for sure if he’s onto

      the bigger road yet, but I hope so:

      mistakes are just mistakes after all,

      each gone soon enough, like the bad

      in everybody’s life. I hope

      to meet him, though he’ll probably

      have moved on by then.

      Maybe HD is with him, Pound as well—

      who could certainly captain any team—

      “Father and Gateway to the East.”

      That had to count for something.

      HD has to work off the Freud, WC

      Williams, his sure pace; at the well,

      always, it seems, at the well.

      But I like to think that Cuchulain

      has been comforted, his shroud completed,

      all these years after the mummy dance.

      Most everyone you want to, I suspect,

      you’ll get to see over there, if you

      get over the humps yourself that is.

      I like to think of WB lying down

      in a meadow his language helped create:

      a nice blue moss interspersed, all

      the trees you want. Other folk,

      fans, as well, real and otherwise.

      The high “e”s will offer just

      the right amount of resistance

      as you recline; recumbent liquids,

      consonants making no end

      to that repose.

      Birds would lace the edges,

      and you’ll probably be able to hear

      the sound of distant laughter. Maybe

      his chords, notes, are like the future,

      calling him, us. Maybe it was

      always like that—nothing can take

      what he’s given, nor the care

      with which he gave it.

      And his friends, family, politicos?

      They’re all laughs, arms about

      the shoulder now. The good

      is the good, after all, and that

      was what brought them to him

      in the first place.

      His life—a life like yours, mine,

      but not at all like either;

      a worthwhile stop, short or long,

      on the road to more.

      Pat’s face tints

      a cigarette grey. But that doesn’t

      seem to slow him down. He’s tended

      his machine shop for forty years, providing,

      arrives at every family get-together

      without flags or roses. Nothing, except him,

      is ever about that.

      I don’t know how he does it,

      want to be like him; but it is too late.

      I have a different job and a family

      that wouldn’t fit into his house.

      They would require different curtains,

      confections, their own puppy.

      So while it’s true we all usually do the best

      we can; his is clearly better than mine.

      He’s not the only one like that, of course.

      There are far too many of those good types

      around this Catholic University, (so many

      holy people, you can’t count them)

      sandals I can’t loose.

      Thankfully, they don’t ask,

      or wear them, except in the summer,

      like that Orthodox Jew Linda and I met

      walking through downtown Pittsburgh

      one summer eve. He thought I was

      of his tribe, was collecting funds

      for something holy. I had

      no money, but wanted to bend down

      and kiss his feet—didn’t.

      Some wimpery lasts forever.

      Pat would understand that:

      he’s been in the navy—

      he has this reel-to-reel with all

      the golden oldies on it: “Last Kiss,”

      by J. Frank Wilson, “Tammy’s in Love.”

      Somebody like that would never lie to you.

      Larry fights a Rottweiler

      It was something he had to do.

      The thing was dragging an old woman

      across his lawn by her ankle.

      That would have been hard

      for anyone to ignore.

      He’s got scars now, war wounds,

      but seems happy enough—

      if you don’t count the personal issues.

      (His wife left him, but comes back

      periodically to clean.)

      I had free tickets, took him once

      to a Browns game, all these people

      on the Rapid Transit with faces painted

      orange, barking like dogs.

      Must be something about the town.

      We cannot win, but are legion—

      though I’m thinking, too, that what

      owns us might go deeper, better.

      In the end, I don’t think we believe

      in winning; I mean,

      whose life is like that?

      At any rate, the two of us

      were

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