On Fridays I line up before the thrift shop
Much like the squirrel, I’m building up a store.
Some wild exotics that would make your eyes pop
Grab baskets, and we rush the open door.
I search for some commodities and trinkets
To decorate the structure of my life,
Give it more meaning, make it work. I think it’s
Like painting landscape with a palette knife —
A rough approximation of a venue
Where all is endless, elegant and calm;
Or it could be like writing poetry, when you
Build lines that hit your psyche like a bomb.
Revising the Sabines
I wish I had that drawing of
My seven year old take on love.
The painting didn’t matter much,
My eye, superior to touch
Took in the turmoil of a scene;
The plump pressed up against the lean.
The tumult of those bodies there
Engaged my earnest, questioning stare,
Expressed the way some children scrawl
Future on sidewalk, or on wall.
A girl walked in an aura of neglect;
Though given food and shoes and toys, still she
Was left in charge of her own self-respect.
Escaping fate and fortune, she was free
To wander round the back yard just for fun;
Sit on the cellar door, pull up her socks,
Squint at her softened ice cream in the sun.
Stare at a patch of kitchen four-o’clocks,
Lick at that cone, and watch the sheets fly free
Upon the wind, like sails to take her where
She’d never been. The world stood still and she
Would never know another place so fair,
Possess a better moment, sweeter reason
For Spring, or Fall, or any other season.