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God
told me
he hates 90 percent
of the sunsets he does.
"I like you," he added,
"because you don't grovel,
and ask only
for important things
like raw clams and
relief from the out-
of-control population
of teddy bears."
Dear God II
Enough!
Two lousy sunsets in one week.
Why do you pick on residents of Holden, Massachusetts?
Two smears of dirty neon.
Even the cat was disgusted:
took one look before puking a hairball
toward that baleful pink blare of clouds
And that blue sky, looking like a backdrop
for some phony shrine in a B-movie
ruined my appetite.
In 1984, I saw a better sunset in a painting of Elvis
at Broad and Market, Phildelphia.
The sun went down in Elvis's left eye,
four vivid colors,
behind a clippership under full sail
beating into the rolling hips
of a green and white sea.
Why don't you forget sunsets for a while?
Join a friggin bowling league.
If you can't learn to slow down some,
end your obsession with pushing product out the door,
you're headed for another big bang.
The Plate
There are 6 of us at one of 12
dining room tables. Ours
is near a window looking out
on a parking lot at twilight.
Do you get it? shouts
my friend.
He jabs at the food on his plate
with a fork.
This! This! This! he says, jabbing
repeatedly.
My friend is 63, about 4 years
older than funny how everything
winds up about me.
Do you get it? he shouts, jabs
my eyes with his.
Stunned, I stare into his forehead
like a mirror.
My father's plate is nearly empty.
His appetite is good.
You look well, he tells me.
Thanks, Dad, and so do you, I say.
Don't you get it yet? my friend shouts.
Another visitor, a woman my age,
says, What are we talking about, Richard?
Food? Or is it something else?
We are surrounded by lovely prints
of noteworthy paintings and radio
music of the ninteen-thirties and forties.
My father sings along as diners applaud.
Yes! Food! he says to the woman.
You don't like the scallops?
Right! Right! he says. She removes
the plate, returns with roast beef.
Do you like roast beef? she asks.
Yes! Yes! Yes! he says.
Get it? he shouts at me.
Got it! I say and shake his hand,
thinking vaguely of plates
overflowing with emptiness
like a museum at midnight.
My father asks me to wheel
him back to his room.
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