Dirty Old Politician

A fish stinks from the head down. 

—Greek proverb 

That’s what they say about us but 

All I know Christ is it ever cold today 

And duty is duty so I’m sitting here 

In the dining room marking off 

The demands of my constituents and the maid 

She’s shivering, bent over the kitchen sink, 

Wearing a tight-fitting outfit 

That I bet makes even 

The blood of the fish 

She’s gutting steaming hot— 

Makes me feel like warming my hands up a bit— 

So I get up close behind her, blow hot 

On that cool nape, massage her shoulders 

And rub up and down her backside 

All for the good of the Motherland but 

Enough’s enough my friends I kid you not 

It’s time we get this fishy business over with 

So she can get down to giving me all 
The no-nonsense loving I lack. 

Shooting the Zephyr

Village folk round here have a saying 

As old as Hephaestus:  

When the tongues 

Of fire in the hearth 

Hiss as if blown 

By some invisible bellows, 

Someone’s talking about you— 

If you ask me, that’s reason enough 

We should all watch 

Our tongues too. 

Why I Didn't Write a Poem This Morning

Caught 

In a sudden light drizzle, I spent most 

Of my energy musing 

Under the eaves 

Watching our pup, mouth 

Wide open, trying 

To catch 

Some shining 

Drops coming out 

Of the downspout—surely 

Here was an other 
Kind of thirst.

Last Meditation in an Emergency

I’ve had it with your mantras— 

I bet if Frank were here, 

He’d say something like 

A sure-fire way to stop clutter 

Cluttering your head is to stop 

Wondering why 

Sirens sing in your ear.

On a Line of My Wife's and Some Others Borrowed from George Oppen

“Why, you’re just a boy with white hair!” 

Which made me think of that other 

White-haired “boy” writing

A poem about a friend visiting 

The rooms of Keats and Shelley, 

Who saw “they were just 

Boys’ rooms” and was moved 

By that.  

 .

And indeed for the poet, 

A poet’s room is a boy’s room 

And he supposes women know it— 

Perhaps the unbeautiful banker 

Is exciting to a woman, a man 

Not a boy gasping 

For breath over a girl’s body.

. 

Perhaps 

That is what remains breathless, beautiful 

In this in which 

Some people never know.