You want me to dance more? I’m like eighty years old.
- Patti Smith
The gypsy girl crosses over to flag a Tonka
for the trip down the mountain into town.
Crow the cat plays solitaire with dust motes.
Outside, the rain is snowing.
I’m feeding the outdoor wood boiler
in the middle of the squall
while the neighborhood Doppler radar
scans images from my childhood,
my mother and father worrying
the seamlessness of the complimentary copies
littering the culvert, an asbestos solution
to an increasing problem, the jigsaw puzzle
marred when we thought we had it.
The Sunnybrook Farm folks are here
as well, grappling with the big ones
who have dug in their heels.
I hope this doesn’t bottleneck things out here,
far from the madding crowd,
which incidentally, recently earned a byline,
and featured at an open mic.
I’ve called in for takeout, after seeing
an iPhone 4 ad displaying
sushi search results
on the back cover of The New Yorker.
I've penciled it in as the highpoint
of what, I'm not sure.
Not to complain, though,
but why has the latest edition been pulled?
Is it something someone said?
Why do we have mouths to feed, when,
as Dylan has reminded us
again and again and again,
somewhere in the distance,
there’s seven new people born?
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| Patti Smith |