POETRY PAGE FOUR
COLUMN NINETY-FOUR, JULY 1, 2003
(Copyright © 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)
THE POET HAS LAMB FOR LUNCH AT THE BOOK FAIR
He changes the subject, unable to confront
the mortality of his effort, or the groove
he makes in time, that leads him on, in spite
of it, like a wheel rutted to the road.
Souls furrow their smoky veil to character.
Back and forth, like the pendulum bellies
of burros when they run, his petitions sway.
The wine is good. It tastes of rusted fruit.
He likes the savory meat that falls tender
from the bone--already he feels stronger.
Earlier, the drape of tent walls breathed in
and out with a south wind, carrying the fuzz
of cottonwoods up from the river. Words,
too, are carried on the wind, as the curious
move from stall to stall. Some find his book,
some find another. Reading is sleep for them,
a gauze that mends the wound of childhood.
Once home, with the radio singing into dusk,
he wonders why the flesh weighs down so much
and how he goes by far on memory of a touch. ##
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