Three Poems

Fish Crew                 
 
 
We feed our neighbors’ fish when they’re away,
goldfish living in small man-made ponds.
Anna’s yard is a tangle of flowering shrubs,
pink and white blooms, small waterfall
that foams into the tiny pool.
We throw some pellets in and wait.
The fish swim over slowly, except the huge one
who can’t get around the bulbous water hyacinths.
He gently shifts his pale white body
till he can suck the pellets off the top,
his mouth accordioning out.
 
We’re in a suburb of spread-out large houses
an hour outside Boston, with oaks, maples,
birches, on a ridge facing mountains to the west.
Our lawns are neat, mostly mowed by others,
our houses freshly painted, similar,
but not exactly the same. It’s a perfect
August day, in the 70s, with light, varicolored
clouds skimming, some birdsong, highway
grating in the distance, airplanes high up.
 
Ruth’s yard is sculpted, trimmed,
no weeds or random plants break the calm
and her little pond is free of plants.
Smaller, tougher fish dart quickly to the pellets,
swirl around each other
for the few seconds of feeding,
flash orange in dark water,
learning the rounded edges of their world.

*

A Book Is Not a Room
 
 
In my dream I’m wandering through open fields,
hot and fragrant with thyme,
 
and then a brick house, or a wood house,
high ceilings and a balcony with a white railing.
 
A brindle dog in the kitchen
barks once, then falls in beside me,
 
curved banister, room overlooking a tumbled garden.
Back downstairs and out the door.
 
A book is not a room. The garden buzzes
with late bees, and the dog digs in the dirt.
 
One friend just died after taking a potion,
when he could no longer talk or walk.
 
Another friend is very ill—
a ghastly scan, then a brutal surgery.
 
A baby I know has a genetic condition
which could cause nothing, or everything awful.
 
One house on the edge of a cliff
with a pool open to the sky,
 
where one can float for a moment
in one’s impossible dream.

*

Meeting St. Francis on the Northeast Regional
 
 
I sit on the right out of New York
waiting for the water in Connecticut
open lots with weeds sprouting
three feet high through the cracks
junked cars in rows
backhoes parked in parched grass
a squat little church still open
pigeons and seagulls swooping
 
waiting for the water
I sit on the right
a rusted factory festooned
with a thousand electric wires
bridge over a wide river
Bridgeport with a monk on the platform
robes and the rope belt of a Franciscan
a black tam o’shanter
what could he tell me about St. Francis
living only to serve
as we rattle past the boarded up
Shoreline Star grocery store
its cracked parking lot
 
St Francis starved himself
refusing the pleasures of the flesh
(the monk is on the train)
went to the poorest most desperate places
tended the wounds of lepers
(he had leprosy in the end)
gave what little he had to the poor
the train is stopped for no reason
a railyard with machines
a yellow “catenary maintenance” vehicle
a graveyard with trees shedding orange
 
and the water
seen from the train it’s all resplendent
egrets in straight canals
small trees down to the shores
a rickety dock and some shrink-wrapped boats
 
I’d like to live on the train
with St. Francis
he’d finally allow himself to rest
we’d read holy poems and doze
look out the window
stop in places we don’t have to visit
just let the train pass
a yard with hot red roses
and then a wide-open space
a blanket of sunlight
ocean headed for Portugal