House Poem

while smoking in my garden i saw the grape vines

where David plucked so many to feed to our parched mouths

last week when the heat was nearly unbearable.

the flame from this dying cigarette is too much on my lungs

which were always big and full of air so my voice

could blare through the haze and the fog

about this place in the early morning; so that it sliced through

humidity like the clever split the eggplant David made

for dinner last night. Julian sprays grease on an old engine

and hops on, trying to kick start the damn thing that laid

nearly dead on our lawn for daysonend. his hands are always working

and black from oils unholy, grout undeserving

but watching him peel a tomato is like watching a mother

bathing her child gently in warm waters. while smoking

in my garden i see the clouds coming in, feel the wind pick up;

autumn finally settling in as the green from the trees

behind are fence are slowly wilting away like the paper

from this almost out cigarette. Mary Emma is nowhere to be found:

she lives like Hollywood though two thousand miles from such—

a model, real-live and all, and she lives it like its real:

a cover in a magazine out of Detroit and we raised a glass of wine

while she put more butter on her potatoes because she needs

the calories. Sam sits with me, smoking and thinking of a song

in his head. eight hours and his body is set to the time

in Sussex. i taught him how to say good ol' American words

like "beer" and "queer" so i can take him to a redneck bar someday

and maybe get into a fight with him there, brother to brother,

intellectual to intellectual (at least in that crowd). Katie's gone

off to make love with her ukulele, to let the earth feel her voice

and it's slight smokiness, though she does no such thing.

she's tall and proud, so much so, recording an album

and leaving me wondering what i could have been. while smoking

in my garden i see the world swim around me in five faces,

some alive and some dead; which am i? i'll let you know

when i finish this last cigarette and head to bed.