“POEMS SHOULD RHYME”


Well, that’s the old way of doing things,
but I think I’ll stick with the new way
if it’s all the same to you, Fay. Oh, I’m sorry—
everyone, meet Fay, my poetry instructor.
When I was small she was my au pair,
until I fired her for preaching her radical
child-rearing philosophies in my presence.
After that whole mess, we got along real fine.
In fact, we became quite close as time
passed. We grew up together. In times past,
such friendships between caregivers and their charges
were frowned upon. Consider the case of the nursing home aide
in Argyle, Minnesota, who befriended an elderly resident
who had once worked for the CIA. State
secrets could have been divulged
in the heat of gin rummy. Luckily for our freedom,
they weren’t. Still, why take chances? Why
put yourself out there for all to take potshots at,
when learning how to bake would be a lot more fun?
Lately, this reporter’s been asking himself the same question.

PLEASE


Don’t put too much strain, I urge you,
on your bucket, if your bucket
is filled with the seltzer of my sadness
or the Gatorade of my spleen. It’s a lovely
thought, very considerate, but it’s not likely to help you
understand where I’m coming from, even if I
am coming from a place that’s easy
to understand, like Boise or South Bend, or even
Murfreesboro. Easy, I say, because of an abundance
of English-language road signs. STOP,
some say. YIELD, say others.
DO NOT ENTER, NO PARKING, WRONG
WAY—the signs keep coming, saying little,
but saying it clearly, in a language accessible to us all,
from the humble dock worker
to the CEO of Morgan Stanley.

This is all “well and good,” but right
now I’m in the mood for frippery
and french fries. Your assistance in acquiring these
and sundry other supplies would be the highest honorarium
you could pay me for addressing your concerns,
be they metaphysical, political, or pecuniary—
speaking of which, I’m okay with cash too.

The bottom line is this: I don’t disrobe
for just anyone, but for you I’ll probably make
an omelet. In fact, I guarantee it. Just come by around four
o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Everyone will be there. We’ll
have breakfast, peruse each other’s uncorrected proofs,
and if there’s time, we’ll whittle some tchotchkes
out of burnished sandalwood
to be sold at county fairs from Findlay,
Ohio to Lake City, Florida. Everyone who’s coming is invited.
If you know who you are, you’re reading this.

Here's something I've noticed

In fast food restaurants, customers rarely sing along with the radio, but employees often do.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN


As I motored across the plains
I decided to save the west for last.
The sun rose in the east, I remember,
and the SAT was a kind of test.

I stopped just short of Topeka
and married a waitress there.
She was a widow of three, a mother of none.
She knew how to fire a gun,
but she never showed me how.

On the ground near Laramie a mattress lay
on the shoulder of the interstate.
I could tell it had recently been repaved.
I wanted to lie down there, it looked
so inviting. But the car kept moving.

Utah was a blast, Nevada was halfway decent,
and northern California was cool as a matter of principle.
The coast offered a kind of conclusion.
“No thank you,” I said, and continued on to Oregon.

Well, I forgot to post twice yesterday, so I guess I'll be posting twice today. Here's a picture of Indiana University.

Well, I forgot to post twice yesterday, so it looks like I'll be posting twice today. Here's a picture of a tree.

Portrait of the artist as a left hand

Gray sky, Bloomington, Ind.

Laundromat, Bloomington, Ind.

Gas station, Terre Haute, Ind.

THE POOL PARTY


The children at the party were unhappy.
"Cake is wasted on the young," claimed Debbie's mom.
The odor of chlorine filled the unfortunate air. Crystal unknowingly had
a tiny leaf caught in her hair. "Where are all the boys?" cried
Lisa and Tammy together. No one knew quite what to say,
except Mrs. Gupta. Straightening her ethnic garment, she said,
"The boys are in Raleigh-Durham, majoring in meteorology."
All the girls knew this was a lie. Lacey's mom was the next to speak.
"The boys are in Great Neck, working on their dissertations."
But not even she believed it. Said Mrs. Anderson, Tracey's mom:
"Half of the boys are in Encino, at lifeguard school. The other half
are in Bakersfield, learning how to swim." Miraculously, this seemed
to do the trick. The girls began to relax; some even ventured
a tentative smile. The smell of the chlorine
was already starting to fade.

FOAM FINGER


At the professional baseball game
I purchased a large foam finger
from a vendor of foam fingers
in order to express my support for the team.

While my pizza is cooling, I'll just fill you in on why skinny people are causing delays on the subway. It's because people are going on crash diets and then fainting, so the train stays put while they wait for the paramedics to arrive.

Resolution! Resolution! Write in blog every day! Eight minutes left! Almost forgot! Resolution! Resolution! What should I—

So, I hear skinny people are slowing down the subways. How 'bout that. Huh. Um... So, I hear yo mama's so fat, if she stood on some scales, they would indicate that a very large person indeed was standing on them. Ahem.

Resolution! Resolution! Less than six minutes! Panic! Distress! Catastrophe! Say, have you ever noticed how a lot of Europeans pronounce catastrophe as "CAT-a-stroff"? How 'bout that. Huh. Indeed.

Well, I guess that's substantial enough to justify hitting the ol' "publish" button. But perhaps you might first enjoy a delightful poem.


THREADING THE WICKETS

When I was a boy
Growing up in England
In the late 1920's
We played a lot of croquet.

Two hours ago I was standing on what might justifiably be described as a "grassy knoll" at 59th Street and 7th Avenue. I was with a large group of people—several hundred at least—who looked like they knew what they were doing. "Do you see it? Can you see it? Where is it? Is that it? I can't see it!" This was the gist of the collective conversation. I thought I could see it, but then fireworks were going off and I realized, nope, didn't see it. No ball-droppage action for Matt tonight. Oh well, at least I was on the very edge of the crowd, enabling me to beat a hasty retreat. Now I'm on the edge of my seat—quite literally—watching an episode of The Twilight Zone I haven't seen before. Happy 2007, gentle readers. Be adequate.