E L O I S E
The room was dark.
He played roughly with his ice cream,
making quite a racket with his spoon.
We were trying to watch Harold & Maude
and he kept mumbling about brevity,
saying brevity was the soul of mental capability
and pragmatic resourcefulness, saying
brevity was the soul of astuteness of perception
and judgment, and that brevity was
the soul of that talent for banter and persiflage.
Now it is later,
and in a different room it is dark.
He is sleeping near me as a horse might,
on his cot. I switch a light on and
watch him. A horse cannot breathe
through its mouth. As children we’d
test this, blocking the nostrils
and waiting. A horse we all knew
would stand there looking down
his long face at us, blinking.
It was a simpler time, woods and clouds
interchangeable.
M A R Y L A N D
When I threw that chapstick down
onto the comforter it
sent ripples through
Maryland.
T H A N K S G I V I N G
I will have fallen deeply asleep
flat on my back
in the middle of the living room floor
with a damp washcloth over my face
when the company arrives
streaming into the room
with cold air in their clothes and hair.
And one of them will come
quietly over to me
I will later be told
and touch my temple gently with
her boot.
T H E F A I R
The day had passed.
It was how we knew
the fair was over.
A somber saint marked
my head with ash.
The fields were green.
The clover hissed.
The crowd got gassed.
The air then burst
with rainbow mist.
Fresh coats of paint.
You showed restraint.
I’ve no complaint.
Though do feel faint.
For the fields were green.
The clover hissed.
The crowd got gassed.
The air then burst
with rainbow mist.
D O N C H E A D L E P O E M
I’ve been working on my Don Cheadle poem
for hours now and nothing’s happening.
I am at home, working on my Don Cheadle poem.
My Don Cheadle poem seemed like a good idea
earlier, but not so much now. Nothing interests me
in my Don Cheadle poem. If I knew how to get
my Don Cheadle poem off the ground I
would do that.