Sometimes a Poem Turns, and Actually Says Something Rather Alarmingly Personal to You...

And you are shocked, because they are usually so taciturn.

Hell, most of them are like the anencephalics of Easter Island.


Sometimes one asks for a drink of water or for you to fluff its pillow.

Immortality can be a little tough on the neck.


I was reading Elizabeth Willis's Turneresque in the tub (it came the other day) and enjoying much of it.


And suddenly this poem just turned, craned its neck, and addressed me directly.



I was quite taken aback.



But I listened.


This poem was like the taxi driver who helps you make up your mind on the way there.


You know what I mean by there.


The sort of there you take a taxi to.


And something smartass the taxi driver said suddenly gave you all the satori ten thousand dollars worth of therapy would never have given you.



You still can't wait to get out of the taxi.




Anyway, here's the smartass poem.


This taxi driver has got my number. I smiled and smiled.



     The Wolfman


A man with a cane has made a long trip. He's unstrung,
coming home. Trapped, in agony, he heals in moony
thickets. He gives away pentagrams. He tiptoes through
fog. He's as good natured as Jesus. An errant son with an
aversion to pity, he's reluctant to love. He shoots paper
ducks but can't hit the canine. In a plaster forest he's
riddled by replicas. He needs a shrink. He's bound to the
gypsy by a terrible necklace. You can't protect everyone
from yourself.