friend, or maybe from anyone, but

as for me, if you did pity, I’d

accept the gift, I would love your fucking pity!

Ballad of EIGHMIWAY

Then I drove by the small, local sign,

eighmiway—I used to think

it might be the name of the road-agent’s daughter,

a way to spell Amy. I never drove

up it, into the woods, but after

the divorce, I would drive there with the I ♥ MICE traps,

to let the mice go, from their small

motel rooms. There was some shrieking, some horror-movie

horror as I popped a wee carrying case

and it scampered, and I would say, Yes, my darling.

And it came to me, with the memory

of the bucket half full of mouse pet-carriers—

I had a self, but had little sense

of self,

I was wandering through the outward appearance of a life,

displaced from my life.

He had not died, just moved ten crosstown

blocks, a half mile closer to

the first drop of the morning sun.

And did I have a moment more

of the setting moon? I kneeled at the mouth of

Eight Mile Way, and levered the miniature

garage door, and felt, as if it were

my ex’s, or my own, a creature’s ecstatic outburst.

Subway Ballad

Off the bus, Times Square, downpour—

heat wave—no taxi—rush hour—

suitcase—backpack—

massive briefcase—

bookbag, and the purse Billy calls

my bowling-bag carrier.

Bouncing the double-decker wheelie down

the first long flight—a young man

asked if I needed help, and easily

lifted and carried both vehicles.

Then a staircase up,

and a young man said,

“May I?” and at the top I said,

“You are my angel,”

and he looked—into my eyes

and smiled.

Another flight, another young man,

and the last stairs, a young woman.

It is what I do—be done by

by kindness.

at rush hour—huge luggage

fore and aft—I apologized a lot—

we’re all so sick of old white women

bragging about their helplessness.

Off at Bleecker—up elevator—

rain and urine—on its floor.

Home of privilege: faculty fortress.

At the desk, Concierge.

Up 17 floors—long view

of Lower Manhattan. My song: I want, I want

to thank you. Ask me

for anything. I hope I recognize you, fellow citizen.

Dear Stanley,

By invitation, I was underground,

talking to teachers, when our host said,

“We’ve brought someone here whom you want to see!”

I wildly thought at first it was you,

but it could not be, nor could it be

our student, recently leapt out of

this world, nor could it be Galway, in his too-small

hospice bed like a big cat

brought home by a child and put in a cardboard

box with a kitchen towel.

I looked over at the flight of stairs, and at the

top of it I saw the feet

the way in the hills we would see a descending

angel’s feet—huge paws—

it was the bobcat mascot, like your pet from the Worcester