windmills
(for Ken Filiano)
the greenrobber’s is busy, even on a Wednesday night
we get avocados from Argentina and “muzz” from upstate
corn on the cob — a little scrawny but it looks tasty enough
then it’s back to the apartment for more conversation
over a bottle wine and a smaller bottle of iced tea
this is a conversation like people used to have in Paris
or around the table over drinks at the Algonquin Hotel
it’s a long, winding thread through a set of encyclopedias
or the bookshelves of your favorite professor
the one whose classes you always loved even though
they had nothing whatsoever to do with your major
tonight on this couch we’re still students, investigating
the myriad tiny connections that hold the atoms together
making all this empty space look like a glass-topped table
or a vase with a tuft of wild grasses next to a bowl of fruit
the blinds are closed, but if we were to open them we might see
the lazily spinning arms of a windmill standing over Cobble Hill
and if we were to pause our talking for a few moments
we might hear the good knight’s armor clinking as he saunters
down Bergen Street, heading for his collision with destiny
deep inside we want to hold the lance, spur on the horse
charge ahead into a glory that surpasses all understanding
bu we are all Sancho Panza, trailing along behind a mad genius
9 August 2012
Brooklyn, NY
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