as he strokes the black hair of his passed-out friend, is a kind of asking, which won’t be answered

by us, making our way past them up the hill, who give them a brief look and then let them go.

The Way of the World

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

We know the ugly hate the beautiful,

and the bitter losers are all seething

over bad coffee, washed in the sleazy fluorescence

of fast-food restaurants. We know

the wheelchairs hate the shoes,

and the medicines envy the vitamins,

which is why sometimes a whole bottle

of sleeping pills will gather like a wave

and rush down someone’s throat to drown

in the sour ocean of the stomach.

And let’s not even mention the poor,

since hardly anyone does.

It’s the way of the world—

the sorrowful versus the happy,

and the stupid against everyone,

especially themselves. So don’t pretend

you’re glad when your old friends

get lucky in work, or love,

while you’re still drifting through life

like a lobster in a restaurant tank. Go on,

admit it: you’d claw them to death

if you could. But you’re helpless,

knocking futiley against clear glass you can’t

break through. They’re opening champagne,

oblivious of you, just as you don’t notice

how many backs you’ve scrambled over

to get this far, your black eyes glittering,

your slow limbs grimly and steadily working.

Dear Sir or Madam

DEAR SIR OR MADAM

This letter is the one you shouldn’t open.

Or if you have, please don’t read further.

It is going to give you terrible news.

Oh sir, or madam, we are strangers

but forgive me, I feel as though I love you

typing this on the forty-seventh floor

alone except for the man who cleans the carpets.

Forgive me if I grow distracted,

and think of my own burdens . . .

a wife’s ashes, a boy who rocks back and forth

all day, and babbles nonsense. His photograph

and hers are on my desk; he doesn’t smile.

The doctors test and test, then send

him to another. Maybe you, sir, or madam,

have felt a kind of helplessness at how things go?

I’m trying to finish this, to tell you

what I’m paid to tell you,

what I have stayed here late to compose

in just the right fashion, even if it takes

all night—the janitor has gone,

turning off all the lights. There’s only my lamp,

and the quiet. . . . My wife liked quiet. She liked

to hold me without either of us talking,

just breathing together. Sir,

breathe with me now. Madam, hold on to me.

There is news I must give you.

Let’s not speak of it yet.

One Nation Under God

ONE NATION UNDER GOD

Certain parts of your body,

don’t you just want

to cut them off, they’re so disgusting?