Wishful Doings
Does a rain drop
wish to be a snowflake?
Does a dandelion
wish to be a sunflower?
Does a yard
wish to be a field?
Do I wish
to be more than I am?
We all must wish
to be something
different.
Does a rain drop
wish to be a snowflake?
Does a dandelion
wish to be a sunflower?
Does a yard
wish to be a field?
Do I wish
to be more than I am?
We all must wish
to be something
different.
I didn’t yell
And others can celebrate who you’ve become
Nothing like Botticelli’s figures,
no soft contours, pastels, suspended grace:
these players struggle, suffer and sweat,
inflict blinding head-on collisions
upon each other and are beautiful.
A scratchy avalanche of woolen
garb was conceived after
she quit – cold turkey – Miller High Life
& Lucky Strikes. She taught
herself to knit with long aluminium
needles & a fiesta of threads –
shetland, merino, cashmere,
angora. In middle & high
school I was deluged with warm
cardigans, variegated mittens, marbled
bedspreads, knobby scarves. For mom,
she labored over an extravagant
mohair coat that flowed to her
calves. I have forgotten much
from childhood, the once-clear
faces blurred; names of towns
& events disappear like favorite
rings thrown in the deep
lake. Yet, I can easily
see her handmade knitted
gear – almost every pattern
& stitch. How the blue
accent stripes on my cabled
V-neck drew the scrutiny
of a prized boy in American
History. His name is gone,
but I recall how tightly
she applied the pearl
buttons & the feel of lamb’s
wool on my forearms
like feathers & wind.
My friend,
your sentiment is nice
but it doesn’t mean much to me
when all around us
are people
who won’t think twice
about throwing me out
with the rest of your garbage.
But thank you.
I saw the real Wonder Woman
heading west on 61st Street
late one Friday afternoon
in June of 1994.
In the lull after The City had
exhaled most of her workers and
hadn’t yet inhaled all of the weekend
visitors, in that breathless moment
there was only the two of us on the
sidewalk between 5th and Madison.
She came gliding toward me on silent
nylon wheels, her hair (blue-black
as any in the comics) waving soft
about her waist as she effortlessly
swayed through New York City
liked she owned it, devastatingly
gorgeous, impossibly cool and far
beyond the reach of mortal men.
I could have watched her for hours
but she closed the gap between us
in a matter of seconds and rolled on
towards Central Park, no doubt to drop
the jaws of a hundred other men and I’d
bet no small number of women as well.
I want to watch my body grow old
Wrinkles and lines
Drooping not with sadness
But with the exhaust of having laughed so much
Something had to give
Each gray hair cherished
Not covered
A ponytail full of secrets, smiling with
The memories of a lifetime of tagging along on
Adventures and misadventures alike
I want to wear age like a Scout’s badge:
Survival
Look back and see that even though
I may not always have thrived
I made it through
I am making it through
give it back–
it’s mine, and
what right do you have to it?
