Poet Found Sleeping on the Job

I bet you’ve heard this one time and time again— 
Your next word could be your last. So why 

Weren’t you paying attention? 

I Reckon That Wannabe Done Reckoned Wrong

There was this whole slew 
Of opportunities awaiting 
His every beck and call, 
But each was blind and deaf 
And couldn’t walk at all. 

Finally, Out of the Summer Doldrums

The calico dying 
Leaves swirl wildly 

In a grim, grey wind 
Rain pelts down 

In sheets, the poem 
Your writing’s still 

Like that fat cat 
Curled up, purring 

In its fur- 
Lined basket 

Near the fire- 
Place in the corner 

Of the plush living 
Room again. 

The Letter I Like to Imagine My Father Wrote to President Truman in 1947

The White House, 
America 

Dear Mr. President Harry, 

My English not so good but 
I want to write you about problem I got. 
I know you a good man and you listen. 
I go to America in 1912. There 
I work hard in lumber camps. 
In 1917 I join Army 
And become proud natural citizen. 
Army send me to Europe to fight Germans. 
War over I come back to America. 
Work hard again. Save little 
Money and go back 
To Greece 1936 for find 
Good woman and make family. 
Have two boys now, 9 and 3. 
War and Germans keep me here. 
In Greece then life very hard die many people. 
War over now but things not good still. 
People poor hungry no jobs. 
No money for return 
With family to America. 
You and America last hope. 
Send tickets please. I honest 
Swear I work hard pay you back 
Every cent because I want you know 
All my life I never vote Republican. 

God bless you, 

Anastasios G. Zambaras, 
Loomi, Messenias, Greece

Dawn by the House of Stone That Jack Built

Bent over, carrying 
The slate-grey 

Sky with me 
As I descend 

The winding steps slowly 
Into the garden, 

I cannot pretend 
It’s been easy 

From beginning to end, 
Nor can I not 

But hesitate at the last 
Step and look back on 

To where the house, 
Smothered 

In a sea of jasmine, 
Floats ambivalent, 

As if hewn out 
Of clear blocks 

Of diaphanous air.