17. cracks
we are all underwater
because it rains and rains and
rains
sump pumps groan and wheeze
shaking the house
streams pour out of the hose
into the grass the street
turning lawns into lakes that ducks
sometimes visit
roads flood the river rises
moats form around our houses
trees whip and flail in sudden winds
lights flicker thunder vibrates
window panes hail clatters
bounces cracks
tornados make up their minds
somewhere nearby
and ah it’s spring everything
exploding vicious and green
16. in the muck
there’s a general fog lying over the world
and it’s leaked itself into my head
all the old subjects melting together in there
with its vague breath — the dids and donts and
shouldas stirring into the wouldas and
cants and ifonlys
i tell you there are no images to cling to
in this bottomless sea or maybe
dank quarry
fetid loch
but there must be a thesis
there must be a point
some divine lesson
swelling deep in the muck
and this insistent message
rises now with
prehistoric menace up
from the unimaginable deep
12. going for broke
— remember when we were poor?
i said, raising a glass of beer
in the stylish restaurant and
taking a deep sip
— remember when we ate at Wendy’s
before going grocery shopping?
— so we wouldn’t buy
too much, Dave said —
yeah. those years in the little
brick house in tucson
with two cats in the yard
and a bun in the oven
squeezing out a
silly dissertation
about ts eliot
trying to imagine
a future where
every unexpected bill
wouldn’t raise major
alarms and dave
wouldn’t say
in the grotty pub
with the visiting irish
— is it okay
if i have another beer? —
— for fuck’s sake, man!
are you that pussy whipped? —
the irish glaring at me
over the top of his pint
as if i clutched dave’s
balls in my hand
and now we’re so rich
we don’t look at the balance
the bun is writing
her own dissertation
and worrying about money
we’re in our 60s eating
expensive pizza in expensive clothes
sipping draft beer without thinking
a new century
security of a sort
but still somehow
the downslope
11. Time to Fly
Dave’s springing his bike
out of storage
getting ready to
bomb down the highway
on his gleaming Harley
she’s a little long
in the tooth but
still able to get him
where he wants to go
free
flying
in circles down
country roads
to brew pubs and
back again
wind rippling
his kevlar suit
first bugs
twanging off
his helmet
just another
working dad
blowing winter
off hunched
shoulders
