This goes back a month. I thought this poem-thing was sortof depressing but now, with everything that's happened since, I'm not so sure. Week One: Pandemic Since the first day, I’ve walked the road devoid of snow, past the open meadow, grim with dun grasses, and there, near an open stretch by the pines, a flock of robins, twelve or so, looking thin, foraging for grubs in fallow sod. Next day,
As promised, another poem-thing. That's what poet William Stafford called his drafts. Again--not deeply revised, no great intent, but springing from the moment. I have the hope, perhaps false, that these poems will all have a short life, that we'll get past this threat, so not need them, and therefore they should not rest long--as I prefer for poems. So here,
Keep Clear of Me; I Am Maneuvering with Difficulty So I have to get drunk over at Art’s where the boys know Barn and leave me alone. I know right away it’ll get around and someone will tell his mama, but I stay committed until I’m so gone I can laugh. One of his poaching buddies says, Bead, I’ll take you home , but I say, No. I say, Don’t touch me anywhere. He backs off, palms up. I toss back my