“Give me a topic”, he said, “and I’ll speak
for fifty minutes.”  It’s true, I saw him 
do it one night in New York, 
as we sat in a piano lounge talking to a bar maid 
who kept pulling on her long, dark hair. 
He talked about Socrates and Lady Gaga 
and the 1962 Mets, who lost 120 games, 
which turns out to be less amazing 
than the fact that they won 40 times.
He had a way of drawing out a metaphor – 
how a batting stance could be like a cup or a key, 
how the question of souls is a gathering 
of pigeons or dust. In the end, the bar maid 
took him home. She could see how lost he was, 
how much in need of soup and homemade bread.
                        

There was no one around the corner, 
just some paper cups and napkins 
pushed about by the wind. 

Then suddenly, a voice 
calling a child to come in 
out of the rain. 

It must have been suppertime, 
because the voice was filled 
with longing and rage, 

as if the potatoes were getting cold, 
milk already curdled as the table 
shifted and groaned. 

We were back home, hiding 
behind the garden shed, 
slipping under the willow tree. 

We had no need for food, 
having eaten at the Pizza Den
between joints we shared. 

We were born into night and rain. 
Our ears rang,  but we could barely feel 
our fingers or toes. 

Somewhere a horn blew, and we ran 
down the road worrying a gull,
its white face clenched in a terrified scowl.