Doctor, for the longest spell,
I was bordering on the inexorably humane, of a sudden—
A conspiracy of grace.
Whole summer in a blaze of gods.
Not so much nattering please, says the impresario,
The nurse’s commandant on call.
Still others mumbling
About salted beans left soaking in brisket pots
At home. Some olden Jews are still compelled to hide
Their jewels in smallish alligator carry-ons.
A Weimaraner with its two invalid back legs
Tucked in a wheelbarrow rolls down the Avenue Calais.
His master pulls at this contraption with a leash.
Were I to wake
I would not be sanguine if my own hind legs were nulled.
I was the center of my Mother’s world the moment I discovered she could die.
A half a century ago, the Nanny kicked our cocker spaniel,
Waldo, down the basement stairs, repeatedly.
When we cannot find the puppy we are told
The creature went, instead, to live the good life
On a skein of land they called “a Farm.”
I believe that he was safe there. I am consoled.
The gravestone on my plot in rural Pennsylvania reads:
She Couldn’t Help It, Pals
The heavy rains have been quite excellent for my composure.
I compose myself again in heavy rain.
The trees, stick-figuring, define the view from here.
The waves
Are pathographical, disquieting.