White Guilt

Seeing that he was black, and dressed in ragged clothes,
I assumed the worst for the man.
But I wasn't going anywhere,
I had no agenda in mind.
I watched him pass the first time, his head dropped,
Then passed him again several minutes later
Around the same spot near the skating rink.
This time, I stopped him.
"Excuse me," I said, feeling humble
But aiming for magnanimity.
"Can I buy you a meal?"
"Sure," he said.
We started walking towards a coney shop
And talked about his life.
He'd just lost his job at a manufacturing plant
And was, as I had thought, out on the streets.
We ate.
I recited him a poem, which he didn't understand or appreciate,
And we left.
He asked for money for a cab.
He needed to get across town to see his family.
I must admit, I hesitated,
But I finally gave him the money needed.
Then something happened to both of our hearts.
He was no longer a homeless black man
And I was no longer an over-privileged white boy.
We were two souls, aimed at love,
And when we embraced,
We knew we had hit the mark.

Tolstoy Tells the Story of My Life

I am walking down the street and suddenly I realize,
Leo Tolstoy is in my head
And he's writing everything that is happening
To me at this very moment.
I hear his deep and sonorous voice
As he describes the way I look at the trees
With their brightly lit leaves,
And wonder as they sway in the warm spring breeze
"Like," as he puts it, "old fat women moving ponderously at an aerobic's class."
He even writes that I feel a sense of false pride
In assuming that it was I, and not he,
That came up with that simile.

"Ah, how fleeting are the chances for glory, thought Daniel."
That's what he writes as I pass the tire swing, where I
Used to push my brother
And recall the time I failed to defend him
From our neighbor Jimmy,
Who stole his popsicle.
He writes everything, only as Tolstoy could,
With such style! And such grace!
The analogy he uses to describe the way I put my hands
In my pockets as being
Like a boat finally docking at the shore
After months of traveling,
Astounds even me.
And indeed I do feel more at home with my hands in my pockets,
And I gaze up at the sky,
And wonder as I listen to this great narration
Of my life, which, as Tolstoy decides,
Must all be my imagination.

My Uncle Bob

"This country needs poets like
I need another heart attack!"
Said my Uncle Bob as we sat
On his front porch watching
The fireflies.
"Take it from me," he said, sipping his beer,
"You want to be an engineer!"
"Why's that?" I asked, though not the least surprised.
"Engineers make bombs and fighter planes,
And there's always need for those."
"But Uncle Bob," I said, "I want to fuel the love,
Not the hate in the world."
"The love?" he cried with a cackled laugh.
"Why, any fool can do that!
All he needs is a cheap bottle of wine
And a decent looking whore!
The love, Daniel. Really."
I sat there and watched as he crushed fireflies in his fist,
And thought, "Yes, this man too could have been a poet."

All Right

Above me, a sliver of the moon points the way
For the gray and blue clouds
That move like slugs over the hazy blue sky.
A bird feverishly sings its turgid song,
Its final flourishes before the sun goes down.
The frogs are warming up for the night's tribal chanting,
And here I sit beneath the bare skeleton
Of a sugar maple
Waiting for someone to come along and tell me
That I do indeed have it all right.

Time and Space

Time and Space went for a drive
With no destination in mind,
Which was good
Because the road led nowhere.
Soon they got to talking,
And an argument arose
Over who was more important.
Time kept going on and on,
Not letting a word in edgewise.
Then, they passed a beautiful lake,
And Space said, "Hush!"
Time was silent, and still, as he looked.
"You see?" said Space.
"That's beauty. Only Space can do that."
Time just shrugged his shoulders
And went on talking
In his deep melodious voice,
Till Space fell asleep,
And Time was talking to himself.

A Wondrous Dream

I saw her, a sight more musical than sound
And heard her speak in a voice that shone
Brighter than any star.
Her touch as sweet as the sweetest nectar,
And her smell as soft as a passing cloud.
And when I tasted her mouth,
Light, touch, taste, smell and sound
Were in love together bound
In waking life a wondrous dream we found.

Seven Minutes in Heaven

We stood in the dark, each waiting
For the other to act,
Unaware that we each held the same
Desires. Unaware that our hearts
Were pounding equally as fast.
We could both feel the heat
Of each others' breath,
And yet, we did not guess
That for one of us to put our lips
Onto the others' would not have sealed our fate,
Would not have changed the essential pith
Of who we were.
We waited in the dark for seven minutes.
An eternity of longing for two so close.
When we left the closet and faced the others,
We just smiled wryly,
And shook our heads.

My Friend the Monster

Allow me to introduce you to my friend The Monster.
It's best you don't shake his hand.
Despite his size, he really has
A "poor little heart," as they say.
Best not to look him in the eye at first,
Not until he's been allowed to toss you.
Please, don't mind the stench.
Monsters generally don't take showers
Or wear deodorant.
However, he does love a good mud bath.
Don't give him any meat.
He's on a vegetarian diet.
He's beginning to catch on to the whole "slim and fit" thing.
Yes, I know, he drools
And barely can put a sentence together,
But actually he's quite intelligent.
I'm teaching him some of the finer arts.
Right now, we're knitting and baking.
He has trouble threading the needle, though.
Go on, give him a hug!
And if he doesn't let go,
Tickle his belly.
He likes that.

The River is Wild

The river proceeds with no caution,
But I must in the snow.
Ice patches are rampant in this early Spring.
In this early Spring the river runs wild
As does my heart, still, in the vestiges of my youth.
I could go on, but am wearing the wrong shoes.
If I slipped and cracked my head on a rock,
It'd be the end of me out here.
The river runs wild.
Surely, wilder than me.

The Doves

The doves in the tree are cooing.
"What are you cooing at?" I say.
They keep cooing.
What's their secret?
"What's your secret?" I cry.
They fly off
And one poops on my head.