Poetry - 1974-1978

His life was a list of days

His days, lists of hours

And at each day's close

He laid his hours

On yesterday's ashes,

A small pile

Of brittle twigs

As easily kindled

As men's hearts.

And as the lists of hours

Bowed like men

Before sun-spiced peaks,

He trembled,

Knowing now his days were fewer

And saddened too

That his lists of the sun

Were forgotten in the rain. 

Come.

It is here.

Somewhere.

Somewhere here,

Where the days disappear.

When the boiled water

Is settled

But still burning. 

Dressed in Christmas colors

He jogged steadily

With confident steps

Like a massive Clydesdale

Pounding pavement New Year's Day.

Remembering two years ago

A similar scene

His friendly greeting

My feigned surprise

O hello

Then turning to smile

Watching a boyish softness

Replace the hardened lines of middle age.

A literary man arrived

Whom I had seen only

In tweeds and tightened ties

No cane, no hat

But always proper

Now in faded denims, torn flaps

Like tongues lapping the air

Stirred by his gait

A lively gait

Like a Tennessee walker

Knees lifted high

And arms pumping vigorously

As though milking the last drops

From a reluctant udder.

He would not remember me

Though I'd composed a poem for him

In 1890s style

Which he had praised.

Now we passed strangers.

It was early

On the track.