After Words

There are other languages bound by habit:

The language of the sauna heat,

Snow shoveled winter, the lilt of

Scottish single malt or Irish Red Breast,

Cold beer in cans and brown bottles

Of almost forgotten softball summers before

Heat stroke and shin splints ended that.

Of autumn’s gold and the moon in Scorpio.

Or the language of kissing the girl

From here to passion before the tongue

On her skin says all those things

I will not take back, the please and

Thank you of our bodies under blankets,

The “will you marry me” that makes

Her laugh. It is a language long dormant,

Guttural in its primacy, urgent, rising

From the belly and sex, soft in the throat

Then hard on the lips when spoken as

Disappointment, frustration, longing

For a yes that is my joy and her willingness.

_ _ _ _ _

The Value of Poetry

While I was in Albuquerque

For a couple of performances

I thought I’d look at some houses

Or apartments with the idea

Of moving there because, well...

After looking at an apartment

When my friend Shelly and I

Came in the front door of her house

The thieves went out the back door

And over the wall, taking with them

Her gold rings and necklaces, two

Vases from atop the fireplace,

Her Taser and a shoulder

Bag full of first edition poetry.

Weird stuff close at hand that probably

Can’t bring enough cash for a fix.

Shocking as the fact of the forced

Window and rescheduling the day

To accommodate police, landlord

And the locksmith who would follow

When we had a moment to assess

She said, “Those books will be really

Hard to replace, so those bastards

Better know the value of poetry.”