My love

I saw the old man, Sol, my friend’s Dad,
as he intensely reads a real estate journal
in his living room— so I asked him
about it and he said it’s highly technical,
its language, so you have to concentrate
It’s not too difficult when you do and,
often, it’s hardly worth it

Her pictures caught me up
They showed her with a life
and concerns that weren’t with me
They showed she could be perfectly
okay without me —a ruthless sense
of intimacy, a happiness, some glee
even, so spontaneous and fine

Leaving, I’m leaving…
They follow me here as though
my leaving meant nothing,
as though I  hadn’t really left
They say the billionaire Arab playboy
craved so many women because
his loneliness was “profound”

What about their loneliness?
Sometimes there’s no one
from across the horizon,
a person for whom everything
about her interests, worries and
pleases you and sometimes there
she is, so wild, happy and sweet

A flower within the weeds—
No weeds, no flower— no flower
then just a meadow of useless weeds
“Air” “sure” Howard liked the way
these two words sound together
I’m supposed to like
that sort of off-rhymey thing too

Sometimes, in the right mood, I do
The flower needs the weeds to flourish
For the weeds, the flower’s their purpose
If you want to send money to a
federal prisoner you use Western Union
When you visit a federal prisoner they’ll
make you change your khaki pants

There he walks—that dignified man
with his cane—careful, deliberate, slow
Sol used to call strangers “friend”
as in “You know, friend, this house
could be what you’re looking for”
My love for you Rachel is unencumbered,
spacious, expansive, real

Sol manned the guns in an airplane
turret in the Second World War
Each mission scared the shit out of him
When he came back home he wasn’t the same—
volatile, somewhat crazy, often angry,
serious, quite often funny, caring and,
at times, just a little bit sad



-June 17, 2017-