Wrong Heaven

I was just sitting here, with my pajamas on
then I was meeting the dead.
Was there an accident?
A slow sickness?
It was a rainy night and everyone
had their slickers on.
Someone from the crowd offered
me one and I put one on too.
I was pretty wide-eyed but relieved
at the same time.
At least there was something
and I was still sort of myself.
Hey! someone said.
Yes? I said.
Did you own a cat?
Yes.  Yes I do...I did I mean.
Do I get him here in heaven?
Do I get my cat?
No, but your cat is the reason why you're here.
Then I started thinking backwards.
What happened...what happened?
Did Peevee get caught up in my feet?
Did I fall down the stairs?
No, your cat called us and gave a good rec.
Oh, I said.
So who do you want to meet first?
I felt...unlikely. That this was a biggest decision
of my...limbo...I guess?
I tightened my slicker.
My mother, I said.
That seemed like a sure thing.
Good choice.
Thanks.
I took my seat in a small cafe.
I ordered a tea.
My tea came.
I waited a long time.
The rain filled my cup.
Finally someone came up to me and said,
She's not coming.
What? Why I'm her son?
Yes I know, but she's not coming.
Well, what do I do now?
Can I see someone else, my father, my wife?
No, he said.
You see, we are all cats here.

When This Happened

her backed dropped like apples
through the bushels of the outdoors.
I didn't have the skeleton for it
but I walked up to her and told her
she was dreaming.  This made her wake
but only into another dream.  A more
bony, more stunningly abstract one
like the zenith of dust.  I could
tell only by the timbre of her heart.

With a Pie and a Sad Luck Story

When yesterday happened a singular mood swept the room.
I had been walking down Elm road lower than the elms,
but when no one was lingering with a pie and a sad luck story
I came in and picked up the tinsel.  Stephen was telling a story,
"Do you know what a Brahman is?  A Brahman is a very good
and gentle kind of man who lives in India and who treats
all beast as if they were his brothers.  There is a great deal
to know about Brahmins but that is enough for the story."
I had once crooned with my setter over an instinctive
loneliness but that was about all I could muster from my unborn
penmanship.  I 'd thought I'd head for home, but the house
snuck off to Long Island.  The afternoon survives but
becomes a darker representation of itself.

When Wednesday Walks Home

I know I'm a loner
with a fine bottle cap collection.
And I know you call me honey
and trespass anytime you like.
But when Wednesday walks home
tousled like a young pilgrim
I could do her laundry.
Bake pies just to keep the heavy
scent of pastry in the room.
She is as good to me as an unexpected lunch,
a profound hammock, a Chilean stamp
with fountains and, look!
Neruda in the distance.

That Was Good Salsa

In a sad tobacco voice
I stepped into class
A trumpet was scrambling
back to its seat.
More importantly
my wrist, laid open
by a butterfly wing
caught it.
I have seen this before
but never
with the eggy film
that covers the whole
celluloid.
The whole story
like the last line of a classic.
I will never return to you
though you did taste good.

Why He Met Her For

We would spend our days
jumping from stool to stool
and talking of Rossetti.
She was a glad daft
wasn't she? And then
the trees would shudder
and a leaf would bend low
enough to lap up a puddle
And like fools we'd lap up
right beside it
And in the end there
would be such joy
in remembering
the sadness that we felt
when a swollen snowflake
dampened our eye
and we called it by name.