With you in my pocket as July simmered into August, I
took careful bites of that astonishing apple plucked from
Eden’s tree. I never knew when a moment might permit
a poem, like a parent granting an extra few minutes of play.
I stood in line with a cartful of groceries as you turned
black umbrellas into rare mushrooms. Boys played steal
the bacon at Scout camp when your past contracted
into the rearview mirror. You walked across the Atlantic
while I glanced at a pendulous blonde wearing
a blouse the color of fresh fruit.
You might blush knowing I took you to bed, falling asleep
with your pages like soft skin. In the morning we lingered
on the porcelain throne as I mouthed a few more
caffeinated lines before yesterday swirled away. Breakfast
became memorable when a splat of jam bled on page
40 as you put down the cat.
Our time together seemed always inapt, out of step
and out of tune. Accidental meanings grew in stanzas
like random seeds tossed to a blustery wind. Not even
a poet could imagine the places we took each other.
Read to Billy Collins, former Poet Laureate of the United States, during a dinner in his honor on August 7, 2013 at the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, Connecticut.
