written on receiving the latest issue of the Cliffs
he's on the sofa slouching
almost on the floor, in fact
reading a poetry magazine
while the tv chatters low
behind him and cars splash
through pools of rain outside.
he's an image of complete repose,
idly laughing when he reads
a funny line, eyes turning
skyward on occasion, fixing
some point on the ceiling
for interminable moments.
if he had company his guest
might think his brain were missing
watching how his eyes lose light,
then focus too before they
go back to the page for more.
if he had company he might
put a sign upon his forehead,
actually, to stop unwelcome
hectoring: "this poet is at work
don't interrupt"--except the only
guest he'd want would be
somebody who'd know that
anyway, or wouldn't care,
too busy were they padding
round the other rooms for
newspapers, his doobie stash,
and beer
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