 |
| From Warm nights, warm days in Brooklyn |
I could build a mountain if I had a bunch of dirt
I could build a mountain if I had a bunch of dirt
or a good poem if I had the right words
but the pigeons on the windowsill are distracting me
with their tone poems about statues
play me that song I like, you know the one
I’ll sit on this wobbly bench and wonder
what might have been if you’d been home
rather than away that time I called you
to say that maybe you and I should get together
try to see whether you are the piece that fits
in the space in this puzzle I’m always working on
that no one in my family has ever finished
in Prospect Park I saw a slow old man with a slow old dog
the man was bent toward the ground, smiling
while the dog wagged his tail, his nose nearly touching
the dirt of my someday mountain
/ / /
The title of this poem was originally said in conversation by a friend.
Comments