The Standards Line

Beneath ice-tipped oaks,

half-angry, amused, wandering

beside a party of the beautiful–

women in evening sheath and

wrap coats, Chloe satchels, furs;

men at their MacAllan and Maduros,

silken in sleek Zegna and Brioni,

I came upon her, reading Ferrante 

on a daybed, Manhattan 

in a chilled tumbler on the floor.

Rising barefoot, lost in lyrics of

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,

she introduced libraries of

port decanter, heirloom Bible,

framed Manet and Chagall,

memoir, museum catalogs, 1st editions.

Reaching from shadows shaped 

by Lalique Tourbillons, a jadeite lamp, 

she disrupts a promising kiss with 

a double rye and rocks,

fresh gloss of Tilbury Queen Red.

Failing to recall evasions 

for better judgement,

we concede the moment,

carrying it to a corner of the couch.

Settling in for snow’s fall,

the body shifts, my cigar

burns a fine long ash.

Combing out her hair, she hums,

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.

Coming to the verandah,

I don’t know how to sit, 

what posture to take.

Living in the lyrics,

I’m laughing at myself.

A Matter Of Going

Starting summer with a death—

dried leaves, drying mud,

a snarl of snapped branches,

two ghost trees are linked limbs

in service to a narrowed language.

Harried by long day’s headache,

I check fence line and locked gate,

move home to try diversion with

Marx Brothers Horse Feathers,

Hoagland’s poetry, Waylon Live.

I saw your phone number

linked in a movie, invisible ink

in the black book of a cop.

We were supposed to meet out West—

turn outlaw in Albuquerque,

Danny Ocean a casino in Vegas.

Spinning a text, you took

Baby Sister to Denver, spent

weeks teaching about snowbirds

and cowboys and cocaine.

With a course in rock star ethics,

you earned a Sin City patch,

ruled the roadies backstage.

Cursing you for a bastard,

I made a run at USC,

took a law degree, married

and moved my business South.

Not in any plan,

I’m standing vulnerable

in hurricane New Orleans,

street debris piled at corners,

rotor chop of helicopters

constants in the day.

Old injuries aching,

sister is alive by inches

in desert hospice care;

a post-mortem in KC weighs

cause of death for you.

From hometown mail, a letter

pleads for my thoughts.

Like the wary couplets warn:

no God, no way to understand.

I pull a photo from happier times,

send it back without a note.