Psalm
I pity the tongues of those for whom
cilantro tastes like soap. Pity the bruisers
and galoots who got sucked so easily
into Ali’s rope-a-dope.
Tributes
Shirts of the Distant Past
I remember you some mornings in the midst of getting dressed
Surprised that I recall exactly when I wore you last
The paisley patterns spilling over sleeves
The Nehru collars nobody believes
The Concert
The geometric sound of Bach:
refreshing seems not the right word;
satisfying feels more like it,
like a chaste kiss
Money Ghazal
Easy new habits—gain weight, lose money.
Mamma said, Don’t wed for love. Choose money.
Life is suffering, Buddha taught. He’s right.
Which brings more comfort—a hug? Booze? Money?
The End of Childhood Is Not Maturity
“Here; just stick the end of this hose in yer muzzle—guzzle
the cold ones we’ll pour down the funnel … GUZZLE! GUZZLE!”
Our clunkers squat in St. Greg’s parking lot; there is Chuck’s
pride, his sixty-six gold Impala—a bad gas guzzler. “GUZZ–LE!”
The Hour of Our Belief
I want to know who cried for the toy I found out back this afternoon. Was it the same child