On A Night When The Crickets Insist

They are interested in power.
They have a passion for moving
large solid objects
with their minds.
They like waking up
and tennis, 
from which they draw
life lessons.
They like chess
as a metaphor
,
but they do not play.

They are past wanting
cars, watches or love
beyond affection.  They like 
frying
chicken in an iron skillet, 
and cornbread
stacked like a pyramid
on a dinner plate.

They don’t care about 
horses
except as backdrops.
They don’t know where
fatigue comes from
or where it goes.
Ideas, even those
filled with white moths,
are steamer trunks.

Their mother is 96.
Their daughter is 30.
They care about 
voter registration;
less so, but still,
to some degree,
about the minimum wage.

The moon is of no interest.

They have no interest
in construction sites.

At a reception, when
they see someone they
worked with years ago,
they brim.        Harto 
is the word in Spanish.

They have made 
their peace
with their partner,
though peace is not
what they thought
it would be.  

The center
continues to vibrate
like an impacted wisdom
tooth.  

They are clean,
sober and off Paxil.

On the walls of their townhouse
are souvenirs of longings
they once felt the possibility
of fulfilling

when a gallery opening 
made them sense 
that life
had been wasted 
on social missions.  

They love best 
at arm’s length.

They are not afraid
of famous or
powerful people or 
intellectual prowess
or athleticism, but
they love Simone Biles.  

They never
underestimate their
enemies, or mistake
passion for loyalty or
kindness for weakness.

The speed at which
the Earth moves 
as it circles the sun –
67,000 miles per hour --
is never far from their mind.

They used to go to a club
in the basement of an office
building in midtown
and nurse one beer.

People would sit down
next to them, start
a conversation, then
move on when they
didn’t respond
to the vibe.  Bees on
a blossoming tree once
meant something to them.

They like a Korean
barbeque place in Astoria.
They believe in God
without an ounce of anguish.  

They do not keep 
a clean house.
Their maid once quit
citing futility.

The hallway 
that goes 
from their front door 
to their kitchen 
has African masks 
lining the wall.

They are prepared for the end
that often never comes.

There are three people
whom they keep away
from their other friends
and from one another.

They sit on the board.

They have one cup 
of the real stuff 
in the morning,
then they switch to decaf.

They remember: 
on the Staten Island Ferry,
one New Year’s Eve, at midnight, 
in the harbor, out on deck, 
in the rainy wind with the woman 
whose idea it was to come, 
how their face felt, pelted 
with harbor spume and droplets
of rain, hurting, vivid, 
but they don’t remember
where they met her
or how the night ended.

They saw, early on,
the limits of what 
intelligence 
could accomplish, but
never escaped its
addictive gleam completely.

They like being in control
the way books put them
in control.  Pick it up. 
The book speaks. Put it down. 
It shuts up. Speaks.  
Shuts up.  Speaks.
Shuts up.