Dreaming of an old friend
(after Tu Fu)
All day fat brooding clouds blow by
But you, old friend, don't come to town.
Instead, you're lit in dreams three nights
As though your spirit's running down.
When we must part you always sigh,
'Wife, kids ... it's hard to leave the fray,'
'Besides, the dough ... the fuckin' flights.'
Your smile says, 'Life's just gone astray.'
DC's new crop of boys gets high
While you, sad friend, stand still and wave.
And you, don't prate of 'Dream' and 'rights':
My friend can't dream inside the grave.
Late questions in winter
Are you the rain my Grandma knew so well?
You're cold enough and sharp enough, my friend.
Perhaps you're rushing from the same wet hell,
Perhaps you're lines some minor devil penned.
And you: are you the snow she hated so,
That danced around her head and bit her hands?
Sick slushy snow, thick coal dust snow, shit snow:
Well, maybe now she's gone she understands —
Or maybe that's just something for the birds.
And you, dark winds, are you the same young Teds?
And you, old stew, are you her final words?
'More rain out there than hairs on all our heads.'
Hangers
'Two boys are hanging there,' my sister said,
Ind'Two dirty ones like you.'
'Our father strung 'em up last week,' she said,
Ind'By now they'll be quite blue.'
My parents' room had curtains always drawn
IndAnd shadows flush with ears,
The wardrobe lived inside that darker world
IndWith shouts and cries and tears.
That wardrobe creaked across my dreams all week
IndIt knew where bad boys are,
Its door would spring full open in my face
IndAnd fling a smell of tar.
And then one day, when everyone was out,
IndI — slowly — turned the lock:
I saw the dead boys in my winter coats
IndAnd ran right round the block.
Bread
If there was only a hunk of bread, days old,
If there was only a glass of something strong
(And candles feasting in the simple cold),
If there was only a woman, hands like song;
If there was only an evening playing blues
(And fireflies flickering along the road),
If there were only trees that froze in queues,
If there was only a heel of bread, days old ...
Morning knowledge
My gentle father died when day was young,
When there was very little left to take:
Gray face, a raft of bones, a bitter ache,
A word or two still living on my tongue.
There's bread that only dying men can eat,
Worn words that only weary men can say.
Sometimes those wispy words just slip away,
Sometimes that gritty bread falls on a sheet.
In those last