it would be late 
for you to come
to my bed
wake me
brush my forehead
and say belatedly
"I'm proud of you."
Maybe that's why we die.
When it's too late.

********

Shadows are elongated today. I
am slouching the other way toward an art
supply store to pick up some canvases,
tubs of paint, pig bristle brushes and charcoal.
It's cold. The earth won't yield to my weight.
A stray dog and I look at each other.
Neither of us can decide whether we're right
for one another. Then we separate.
A woman hides behind her window curtain.
She's beguiled by me, my smile.
I agree with David Hume. What I see
are the ideas I work with. The row houses
to my left are appealing. As are the pinnate
leaves in the gardens. As are the people.

*************


You have to have a barn. The warped red wood
the sunlight through its slats the straw that's left 
on the ground. It's required if you want to write
a poem to a country meant to last.  You 
just say what you see. You are a cirrus cloud.
You are a witness. Like the scarecrow there
in the dry brown field wearing the farmer's hat
who has left to work in Long John Silver's
restaurant in town. The supervisor
is strapped to his back. He plows the people.
He fetches bags of fried fish and hamburgers.
His mule is now a tube of glue for children's projects.
He makes about 20K a year. Enough
to make repairs to the home he built to last 
for all his years.