A Letter to the Boys

If gathered together,
the tiny bit of snow
on the neighborís rooftop
might only fill a cup.

And yet, scattered evenly
as it is, and being heavily
concentrated at the ridge,
it looks like a perfect dusting
of powdered sugar.

Early morning. Calm.
Half-frozen drops of water
arranged like beads
along bare branches.
Robins singing.
Patches of blue dragged
against their will
by dark clouds
toward the eastern hills.

When I go out today,
I will wear my heavy wool coat.
I will be crazy underneath,
a furnace of illogic,
a black kettle on to boil,
full of pungent greens.

The advertisements say,
Let us speak plainly now,
this is what you need:
A man is not a man
unless he is properly
scented and insured.
Invest in yourself.
Be unique, like others.

A black kettle on to boil,
full of pungent greens:
lungs like bellows,
a pair of legs and feet,
a solemn nod for
everyone I meet.

I would know you
if I saw you, boys.

I would know you
if I heard your voice.

I would know you
from across the street,
and in the wilderness
that intervenes.

But would you know me?
Or would you avoid
this tangle of noxious weeds?

March 9, 2006

Previous Entry     Next Entry     Return to Songs and Letters     About the Author

Main Page
Authorís Note
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Letís Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
E-mail & Parting Thoughts

Flippantly Answered Questions

Top of Page