Twin sets of
laser eyes
beneath
persistent
locks of hair
Two hands
commanding
drum sticks
Two arms
caressing
neck of bass
Piano sounds
filter in
Jarrett-like
unafraid
to carry
the scene
Sax smooches in –
an adored
older cousin
on his way
to the beach
and you –
lucky you
got to go
along.
How did these items
become part of my life’s
clutter to begin with?
On my desk are two
copies of the book,
Yoga for Pregnancy,
though I’ve never
been pregnant.
Both copies have
been borrowed
numerous times, always
returned with a one-line
Thank You scribbled
on a square sticky note.
Inside a long plastic storage
box of fabric remnants, snaps,
needles, thread, pins, bobbins,
Velcro and shoulder pads, I find a
saved Yoga Journal, whose feature
article is “Be Happier Than You Ever
Thought Possible.” Did I read it?
I can’t recall. I put it back.
Inside a red and black pocket
journal, there is only one – full
moon – entry reminding me that,
after chanting in the Kanon Room
with Cynthia and Maria Elena,
and with Dad’s photo on the altar,
I returned to the parking lot to find
my car’s windshield stunningly
covered with yellow jackets.
What did this mean?
Did Dad caution me
about yellow jackets?
Get stung by one?
Respect them?
Kill one? Wear one?
It felt like a good omen –
that mass yellow gathering
on my windshield – yellow
the color of sunshine, happiness,
joy, intellect and energy –
But the space between my
grief and tears came undone
in that private chanting
service that day. It was
both healing and unbearable.
As it is to recall.
That journal, with its
only entry, was tucked in
with all the mending
materials that I own.
Ahh –Yellow Jack – ets!
how did I not get this
until now?
Jack – is my Dad.
I read your poems, knowing
that the vase of fresh cut
roses that you describe could
be fake – could be, that is,
an imaginary vase, rather
than one you see on a table.
The patchouli scented
candle you smell burning
in a darkening cottage,
(as the sun sets over
Scotch pines outside
its dining room window)—
may have been cut and pasted
from an old dream of yours.
I know that raffia-tied jar
of strawberry jam you claim
as home-made by your lover –
I know, even as you spread it
on an (allegedly) warm biscuit,
that it might very well have
come from some big grocery
store chain, made in large
vats in a factory up-river.
I know you may be inventing,
rather than noticing, these
items in the morning of your
day as a famous poet at work.
But you should see outside my
window, my backyard, Billy –
My neighbor, Nick, with his
long-handled hose, watering
the Arborvitae shrubs on the
bottom terrace of my descending
lawn, and the bushy sun-flowers –
just about to pop open.
If I wrote a poem,
I’d show you my soft
new double-wide hammock,
so white and inviting under the
walnut tree. You’d see an oval
umbrella table with see-through
patio chairs, a tray of marmalade
cookies, and blackberry ice tea.
Look – my favorite yellow
finch, wearing his little black
vest – drinking from a puddle,
(leaking from the weak link
between two bright red hoses) –
across a neighbor’s walkway.
I only wish I’d remembered
to bring a camera along today.
What are the chances,
Billy? - Your name
and mine in the same
front page article of
The Democrat & Chronicle –
Mine - for hanging out
at the Jazz Festival;
Yours - for being the
renowned poet whose
book I brought along.
A D&C reporter, usually
a food writer, singled me
out from the throngs arriving
at the Rochester International
Jazz Festival, to ask, of all things,
what I was carrying in my tote bag.
Auspiciously, I pulled out your book,
Billy Collins, The Trouble With Poetry:
And Other Poems, to her delight, as well
as mine. I had been ransacking my
brain, for a time, unsure where I’d
left you– wasn’t my name there
inside the cover? My acupunc-
turists’ other clients must be
thrilled to have your poems,
instead of used magazines,
to read, while waiting to be
needled, I thought. Or did I
leave you at Muddy Waters
Coffee? Those lucky stiffs.
Eyeing my decorative tote,
the food reporter probed –
“What else did you bring?”
She was probably hoping for
avocado sushi, paired with lime-
drenched mango slices or kiwi.
I removed some Kleenex, which,
I wish I had said was for moments
when the music would move me to
tears. Then I pulled out an Acme pen,
a Moleskin journal, a copy of Email
to Cleveland, a pair of Lauren sun-
glasses, a blue hooded rain jacket.
The one item I did not reveal,
and I will share this with you,
Billy, was a fine glass of wine,
concealed in a green tea bottle.
Have you noticed how similar
in color, Australian Chardonnay
can be to Arizona Green Tea?
Here’s to you, Billy Collins,
for sharing the front page –
with me. Here’s to you,
and to Jazz, and to tea.
