It is past midnight
It is past midnight,
one minute and I have the thought
that I should write a long poem about
of all people,
Robert Gipe.
Robert Gipe asked me if I ever felt guilty
about the things I did for the government.
I told him that the very thought of
doing those things again
fills me with anticipation,
my feelings hone for flight or fight.
Robert wanted to know how I could
go to Columbia, Brazil, Germany,
other places I tell him about
in my other life of secrets
that I would not tell my students about
in a Kentucky classroom.
I do not tell him I have a reputation
in my rural community, agricultural,
impoverished. One man calls me
a local legend while others assume
I am a good educator, a good man,
an honest man, dishonest in my own words,
but a family man, a father loved by his children.
Robert wanted to know if I justified
what I did because I felt as though
what I did was done because my
President asked me to go out
into the world and help him
make a difference.
I tell Robert that the Man trusted me.
I don’t tell Robert that I never betrayed
that trust.
Robert wanted to know if I was a Republican.
I tell him not to hold it against me.
He said he did not,
Robert told me how much better
my wild story would be
if I were a Democrat
working for a Republican President.
I toyed with that plot line,
Robert being the author that he was.
Instead, I begin to write a poem
about Ange, a woman whose beauty
has not given in to life’s pull–=
has not given up the elasticity
in her neck, a woman whose legs,
legs of a runner have not lost their rhythm,
have not lost their toned calves…
Robert has gone to his room to sleep
at 32 minutes past midnight.
I begin to write Ange across the page
and down.
My hope is that she will read the words
after drinking two vodka and cranberry
on ice to relieve her stress…
