Table of |
Beneath the caul, those eyes
Beneath the caul, those eyes.
Wide not in threat, but terror.
Can I be of help? What brings you
Here where others chew
Most of us on this street
Are equally stricken,
Only time has rendered us
Empty of promise,
Ready to accept
POEM FOR CHLOE
I sit in the corner and watch my cat.
I like it like that.
She sits in a basket and looks at me.
And longs to be free.
Free to leap to the chair she once claimed
As her own. Her dependence has grown
Until it irks her, chides her, reduces her.
She now quits the basket we set in the sun
For the shadows we shun.
Afraid, unsure, diminished.
I mourn for my cat.
I don't like it like that.
WASHING DISHES BY HAND
There are traps you can fall into,
Using too little soap, or too much.
If too little, no one can say
That the dish is squeaky clean,
Is free of all trace of oil or grit.
If too much, the same may be said
Of the soap scum left on the surface.
Longer to rinse, if too much,
To be sure, to be absolutely sure.
But how sure is sure?
You can also, when all’s said
And done, be wasting your time
Lurching after shadows of scum
Or vermin or soap bubbles
That have already said goodbye.