We will leave on Sunday
return to another life
orange room not yellow and
people will make sounds not frogs
or birds sounds of stories if we’re lucky
sounds of what it’s like to live
in a place so big you never run out of streets
you haven’t been you can take the subway
all your life get off on a different stop
I still love it there but I will miss
this quiet this porch this September Friday
right here.
Dear Friends: Here’s a poem. AND I need your help with FINDING MORE READERS for
these poems. Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell anyone to SIGN UP. xxxxx
On our way to the pot store in Great Barrington
second visit order online if you go otherwise
two hour wait on our way to the pot store we
stopped a very good Goodwill been there before
stylish French woman manager wearing yellow looks like
the girlfriend in BASKETS (have you watched that show?
Zack Galifinakas and Louie Anderson. Peter’s favorite)
we asked where to eat lunch because she is French
because she was wearing yellow because she approved
of our numerous purchases Go To Marketplace Next Door
she said and though that seemed Too Easy we did and ordered
sandwich of the day Chicken Avocado on Homemade Bread
recommended by Joyce, a painter who works there 20 hours a week
Blackberry Izze Soda (owned by Pepsi Cola unfortunately) to drink
they have craft beers too we didn’t want beer we enjoyed our lunch
more or less perfect also the day pot store etc and agreed for sure
We’ll Go Back.
If I were to write a book of poems
one for every day titles could be
dates like September 18 and while the poems
don’t have to describe the day necessarily
(maybe Netanyahu didn’t win. We are driving
to the pot store. Late this afternoon I’ll
take another piano lesson. We are still in the country
and these last days this one too inconceivable
and I don’t know the words for this light. Though I try)
I could, if I wanted, describe this day
or make one up (we will drive to the Adirondacks
because it is beautiful and then,
maybe we will climb.)
We met in Old Saybrook a year ago
in a warm pool in a spa hotel right on the water.
You said you were the daughter of a famous
artist I don’t remember who you told us
a story of How You Met Your Husband.
handsome Italian who said very little.
he swam beside you in that pool.
You met him and said Yes. That’s what you
told us. And then you described about your Famous Father
and the barn where he painted and how who he was
made you want to lead a different kind of life
but you weren’t sure how so you married the handsome
Italian. Dear Magdalena. I don’t remember your name.
Or your famous father’s name either. But I remember
our swimming in that warm October pool and thinking:
will I remember this?
And what I want to do today
because it is the last Monday here for a while
when I can decide what can happen
besides this poem and a story that maybe
I’ll finish maybe not and later a glass of vodka for
B.B.King’s 94th birthday a walk to the post office next door
not for stamps but to hear this summer’s postmistress
explain what happened over the weekend (not much
though her explanations always worth a walk) and maybe
then I will drive to the Buddhist monastery in South Cairo New York
unlikely place for Buddhists and monasteries
but here we are here we all are for now
An Omen is a Sign
maybe good and maybe bad
from Somewhere Else
that today that tonight or this morning
or This New Year or even right now
when the red bird sits on the porch
and actually seems to smile at me
do birds smile I’ll google the answer
when I finish this poem
a red bird
smiles at me on Friday the 13th
and All whatever All might be
is better than OK. It’s Good.