COMPARISON

According to the cover blurb, he has
written 19 books of poems, and as many

of prose, including fiction, criticism,
and a memoir. He was born, so it said,

in Aruba of a Russian father and Irish
mother. He has, in addition, climbed

Mt. Everest, done research on the Amazon,
and enjoys fly fishing in Montana.

I, on the other hand, grew enough
tomatoes this summer to freeze

5 quarts of spaghetti sauce,
which I made myself.

There was some left over.

THE PIANO

   For Ann
   In Memoriam

They are taking away the piano.
It was hers, not mine.
She made it sing.
I cannot.

Mozart, Beethoven, of course.
We went to see "The Sting."
And she said I want to play Scott Joplin.
And did.

It has stood here in the living room,
mute as a boulder and as heavy.
Could it have spoken
it would have begged me to send it
somewhere, anywhere, so it could
sing again, which is why today
they are taking away the piano.

SPIDER SPIN

My neighbor comes across the street,
gives his usual smile and waves.
I stop, cut the mower's roar.
We chat, ordinary stuff.
In minutes, five, no more, he turns
to go. I see it then . . . a single
silken thread sticking to my sleeve.
I trace it to the other end,
find it fastened to our tree,
white oak, that stands four feet
away. In such short tick of time,
a line was cast, a distance bridged between,
vast by any standard,
an engineering feat that dwarfs,
by contrast, any man-made span.

Just a spider's spin, I think
and brush it off my shirt
with mild annoyance, missing
once again a chance to cheer.

50th REUNION

More than anyone,
I was more pleased to see John,
hadn't seen him since graduation.
He was taller than I remembered,
red hair now softened to something less than fiery.
We greeted, shook hands, skipped the usual
joke about the ravages of years,
but did the common verbal dance:
how good it was to see old friends,
what a shame it was the dozen
who had died. Then I said
what had never dared to say --
how much, back then, I had admired him.
I prefaced it with what we both knew
was true: "you were not an athlete."
His nod and smile, mock-shocked,
coaxed me to continue.
"you stuck with it, practice after practice,
sitting on the bench, game after game.
You were loyal, steadfast, true."
He gave a rueful laugh. "Or maybe
just too dumb to quit," he said.
But I could tell it pleased him.

We talked some more, then someone
came to join us. "Thanks for that," he said,
before our time was up.

WELCOME TO THE BOOKMOBILE

So, your first day on the job.
Enjoying yourself so far?

We see George every other Friday
at this Senior Center stop. You'll see him
feel his way through the door, up the steps.
Legally blind, he asks us to read
the summaries on the boxes -- CDs
of novels we have guessed he might enjoy.

He nods at most, sometimes shakes
his head apologetically, not wanting
to give offense at our poor choices.
He favors intrigue, suspense,
dark deeds done in secret.
His face, conversely, is light full,
blue eyes sightless but bright
as a boy's. His voice, a pleasant
baritone, interrupts itself
with chuckles in almost every
sentence. He knows the follies
of the human heart, especially
his own, and thinks them wonderfully droll.

He should be coming soon; it's almost ten
o'clock. Get ready to be blessed.

NATURE WALK

Do you remember that April day,
a getaway (that's what we used
to call them -- getaways) when
we went for a walk in the woods
near that nature center somewhere
along the Blue Ridge, and I kept
calling your attention to the spice
bushes so often that you finally
said, "I've seen enough spice
bushes to last me for a decade"
-- or something like that -- and
I told you that it wasn't true
that when you've seen
one spice bush you've seen
them all because each one has
its own individual, unique beauty
and that to really appreciate
nature one should be more
aware of the particular
form and feature of each species
and you answered that this
outing would be a lot more
enjoyable if there was a lot less
commentary and a lot more
silence?

JASPER

He greets me at his door as if we
have known each other for years.
I phoned prior to coming.
All I know is what Teresa
told me this morning: his wife died
last year; he's had a rough go of it.
He has coffee ready to pour.

We chat about the dry spell,
the not-much-chance of rain.
He says he's spent the morning
freezing corn, fifteen pints so far.
He is pleased, but tells me
last year was better even though
then he was still taking care of Sara.

It is his way of bringing her
into the conversation where
she stays for the next thirty
minutes. By that time I feel
I have known her for years.