for Elizabeth Catherine Lampe

I start out thinking it is an expression, isn’t it, whatever 
floats your boat, and that instantly alerts me to the fact,
that as a poet I am not as clever as Billy Collins nor
as deep.  He could turn the steam off a cup into something

to notice. A celebration of life, steam off the mouth of a cup
would become a spirit rising, perhaps my dead mother, if you
see what I mean.  Today, I realize, is my mother’s birthday 
had she lived to be 82.  I am writing this as a bird,

not an owl, calls to me through the glass. I apologize 
to the empty chair, knowing Gary Snyder would say
with certainty if it were a lark or a wren, but I am pretty confident
that I and the absent Mr. Collins do not know.

Nor do I know for certain, where the song “Row Your Boat”
comes from exactly.  I wonder if either of them does,
although it’s a silly message that I feel certain none of us
believes: gently, would hardly be used in rowboat instruction.

Ask anyone who has ever struggled with oars, would this procedure
be done merrily?  Li Po may have been merry as he paddled,
as one of Yeat’s relatives may have called it. Li who supposedly
drowned while drunk and trying to embrace the moon.

In reality, this I did research, during one of my annoying 12-step
moments, Li Po died of cirrhosis of the liver.  Which reminds me
of poets somehow, and me with my own thinking problem.
Mr. Collins would have known how to salvage this doomed

and rapidly sinking poem. Buckets of water, lifting it higher
than it deserves, certainly a reference to Virginia Woolf
and the River Ouse where she did herself in.  She must have paddled
romantically, skimming stones like dragonflies spiraling off lily pads. 

Is that enough, Billy, I ask the chair informally?  As for this poem,
I have these poor strophes going down for the last time.  Sure
I have done a bit of name dropping, thrust out my literary oar
like a sword, but mostly (other than a nod to Mom)

I have wasted a good deal of paper, sheets and sheets and sheets.
A drunken rowboat stuck forever in the currents, and this blotty pen
that keeps sticking, repeating despite itself:  merrily, merrily, merrily
merrily with our lives connected so permanently to dreams.
                        

	For Caliban

I noted he slept so much because the first two years of his life
had escalated into perpetual adolescence. Yes, he now seemed
perfectly relaxed and limp, not threadbare like the faded 
knees of my favorite jeans. Given the style of a few years back,

these would cost more.  Random rips and holes seemed to increase
the price, while these I had earned, scrubbing or scouring
a floor somewhere in the house. He didn’t like sticky on his pads
as he patrolled relentlessly during one of his night shifts. Just now,

he was off-duty, and had been pressed into cheerful activity:
stretching and yawning as he eyed me with a petulant regard.
I was moving chairs around the room rather than disturb his
few moments of quiet time; I tried to arrange housekeeping

duties around his schedule.  Often I caught him napping, which
made me aware that while we frittered the night away, he was
“on it” guarding his territory and us, our constant loyal patron.
While we blithely squandered our time, (working for a living),

he lived his life of scholarly contemplation. Oh the drive 
for obtaining unnecessary things, (like clothing) the quest
for careless acquisition. Which made me pause
with my calculator, adding and subtracting this month’s debits

and credits, salary and expenditures to do the math on him. 
12 years the first, 13 the 2nd and then 4 x the remainder, 
8 as it happens, time whistles by while you work.
After checking twice, I conclude with a triumphant yelp

while he startles, opening and closing one eye: he and I, are exactly
the same age: 57 years old. Mrs. Riley and her cat? Me, a wrinkled
matronly housekeeper to a retired gigolo. He, dignified, handsome:
forever loyal. Indifferent or asleep to the passing of time. 
                        

Not to be catty about my former patron, I wanted to explain
why I used to mumble “Dictator” rather than Delano and to 
say from this life that he was wrong, wrong, wrong about

so many things. Had he the wisdom of Missus Horse Face things
would have been much easier. The WPA? What a waste of time.
They cut through every country lane, ruined good smells, destroyed

streams, thwarted fish. And for what? For charity, and only fools
or Democratic dogs believe in that. Although, the glistening men
slathered in sweet animal smells, ummm that? Made this boy’s

tail wag.  I shouldn’t say this now, but all these years later I shall.
I liked boys. Yes, liked in that way. If you’d been paying attention
or if he had, when I had to endure those meetings,  I always tried 

to get a lick off ole Bertie’s crotch. He had this animal magnetism
that few men have today. The Brits? There is something to be said
for that part of world. They may have been our allies, but have

you ever played snooker? Billiards, now that is what Americans
play, the balls are huge and yet Brits prefer snooker? I rest my case
Have you ever seen or sniffed a destroyer from the Queen’s Royal Navy?

I have and having inspected one, the rats jump ship to escape
the stench although there were some delicious dead animal tastes
that made it all worthwhile. Buy me a slurp of cold water, Sailor?

But Frank (he called me Fala, familitary=contempt)
well he betrayed me by hooking me up with that sappy Bundles
for Britain group making ME their mascot? Indeed?! I never liked

them, much less wanted to protect them, wouldn’t you find this
an insulting task? To be called “barker” and to have to roll over
and smile for that smelly-ass leader of the pack? I know I know 

I do know, he kept calm and carried on, yet I never liked bulldogs,
and he reminded me of one. Eleanor considered me her husband’s
pet, not quite good enough, queer in every possible way, never mind

what that bitch was doing between the covers. I am telling you now.
New Deal, Camille, I am from another era, and best out of it.
I don’t want to join a union; I never trusted those hairy teamsters.

Republicans made me sick, although I did love the gooey aftertaste.
I disliked Winnie, much of the British empire, half of our supposed
Allies, all cats, most squirrels and just so you know, I hated and despised

Harry S. for Stupid Truman who called ME “the informer”. I shall go
on record to say, just like my old boss, he had zero imagination. The bark
stops here? Why, you must know he stole THAT line from me, don’t you?