I can never
write a poem
on a subject
somebody
dictates to me

because
when I sit down
in my study to try,
the Muses
leave in a huff.
                        

You stand
alone in the bare roof
of the building where you live.

Your head is backdropped by miles
of rooftops as grey as the sky 
and the undeserved blows you've endured.
Your windblown hair has been mussed

into a thick brown cluster
bunched above your right shoulder.
And your eyes—still soft though subdued—
look straight ahead and show

that no matter what a new day
may pretend to promise, you hope
not to be fooled again.
                        

Relish your lifetime's happy surprises!—
a delightful stranger you meet turns out
to be a cousin you'd never heard of
or a will's windfall that's bequeathed to you—

relish these surprises for all they're worth,
because you will also be surprised
when you happen to discover your parents
have hidden a mounting debt for years

or a neighbor, after the funeral,
tells you that your best friend, one week
while you were out of town, began
a long affair with your now-dead spouse.