Waiting in a lofty hotel lobbyhoneycombed with entrances and exits,feeling weak, I find a corner, lean
One of the first times I sawMy cousin’s son he was a kid wearingA baggy Canadian hockey jersey
What’s a song without measure,Or a verse without meter,Company without pleasure,
Picasso the matelot, his Colt cocked,Amiably inert in the photoFrom Houston’s museum studio,
A womandownwind from Nagasaki now dyingis forced to decide
The last time you were beside meit was April.I knew it was over
Yes, there were “close-ups.” In a marriage like theirs,there were many, and each was easy to find(her lovely face, her smiles, her pensive stares)
He never even noticed anymorethe “finish” of the wine, the tang of the salt,the sweetness of the sugared petit four,
It’s a farm town in the August heatWith a couple of bars along Main Street.A jukebox moans from an open door
All contrary noises in the world,the bang of unlatched things, the scratching in the wall,
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