Poem of the Month
Joe wants me to marry his daughter
but he doesn’t know the kind of man I am.
She is sweet like the cherry wine Norwegians
sip at Christmas and I am the bitter grinds of
yesterday’s coffee. She tells me she loves me,
History tell us they’re out there
and they don’t want to kill us.
History tells us they’re out there
like stars buried in the galaxy,
I put the sign in the window:
Everything’s For Sale.
All aisles must be cleared,
every shelf must be emptied,
I’ve never stood opposite the Mona Lisa.
I’ve never heard the euphoria of Ode to Joy
or the bloom of Vivaldi’s “Spring.”
I’ve been reading the sad script of our lives
in the morning paper and don’t much care for
the current draft, which churns on and on,
the bloody plot repeating itself over and over,
Southerners have a taste for nostalgia.
It doesn’t take more than a balmy breeze
to carry them back to some old house
and a younger face, a distant voice
or a kiss they never washed away.