Circus ComesTo Town

They rollinto town in the dead of night 

on a blade of track that slices cleanacross 

the prone rib of Main, quick striped gatesneatly 

chop a graceful swell of cool damp airclean 

at the knee, towering starless boxcars 

draw up for a chaste kiss, duty bound ranksclosed

at parade rest, sweating angle iron andplate 

tick off the mounting minutes untilswarming 

gangs of roustabouts, cropped drop forge facesgathered 

into new moon clefts, throw back the doorson 

The GreatestShow On Earth; my bundled dreams 

Secured inbroad canvas and plastered steamer trunks,

Pace thelength and breadth of clattering 

iron cages, Grin manically behind

cracked stricken pancake plaster, Hobbled 

in a steel corral, rolling eyeballs set torim

twin cups of flared nostrils, Murmursilent 

prayers of thanks for the net beneath, Spit 

shine their tall black boots to a high glossgleam 

that mirror the tiers of jeering towners 

lured here night after night by the cool clear

tone of the feathered air horn, keen forsome 

three ring thrills and chills under the BigTop; 

perhaps a nervous elephant perched highabove 

a still glass of water in a small pool oflight. 

Crazy HorseWaits For Neil Young

Working theirway through the Harvard Classics 

half-moon reading glasses perchedprecariously 

on their noses, dozing off from time totime, 

myoclonic twitches jolting hands and feet

that pine to plug in and mark time,dreaming 

of that bait shop in the Maldives with acooler 

full of Bud where a man could do somecombing 

on the beach and wait for the sea to rise

or the pending call that sends them up theattic 

stairs on a frantic search for their carryon 

luggage and the worn out Converse and that  

lucky tee shirt from Rust Never Sleeps.  Never 

a doubt, not one; well maybe a fewbut 

the changes and chords will come wanderingback 

and the chorus to Fuckin’Up practically 

sings itself, but in the meantime thecheckbook 

needs attention and a grandson’s home fromHelmand 

and isn’t the Lipitorrunning low?  

Two chaptersleft in Moby Dick, they eye the 

phone convinced again tonight’s thenight.  

I Posed ForMatisse

He uncoils meslowly like a skein of yarn 

paying out a beat behind his eyes, 

worn panes of beach glass that scour 

the days remaining for feeble siftedlight 

drawing his hand along like a merry piper

through winding Hamlin streets, 

unruly fingers confounded by buttons 

hale and nimble once again, fat

graphite rolled and balanced, grip loose

and brash floating just above an emptyballroom 

floor to strains of a silent waltz 

fancied played in some distant place 

while my skin pools in goose flesh, my 

bobbin spun free of thread hip, breasts andneck

described in a perfect dearth of line, 

God struck mute as Islip demurely behind the screen.