| FridaSpitting out her beauty and disgust,She | | | | swirl for us aloneWhere we can touch and float |
| jiggled ghosts and skeletons,Emptied blood and I | | | | asleep or wakeAnd be content awhile with what |
| was there.I cleaned up her mess,I fed her dog | | | | we’ve sown.To love where all we give is all |
| and I made her bed.I watered the garden by the | | | | we take,As fishes waken from their restless |
| pyramidAnd it blossomed.In life or death, I must | | | | sleepTo watch us drifting till we’re in too |
| see her again.She’s just like me;God and | | | | deep.---------------------------------------------------Medical |
| the devilWrapped up in one | | | | ExamTwo soldiers, one all white, one all red,Guard |
| in a DayRome sits on its seven haunchesAnd the | | | | the north wall of the cubed room.Squat, each with |
| pines, with fountains in their branches,Old road | | | | a pedalTo open the lids hands-free.Fourteen inches |
| markers in the Appian sun,Are stolid, green and | | | | square, fifteen high,Steel with polished |
| well run.A conservative morning begins with | | | | mechanisms,Spare, utilitarian,Made in |
| dawnAnd makes its logical way as a pawnIs | | | | Switzerland.Plastic liner bags skirt the tops,Peek |
| moved one square at a timeTo Noon. It seems all | | | | from the edges of the coversLike play-filled |
| right, but I'mConscious of a skip in my | | | | children unready for sleep.The sentinels neither |
| heartbeat,And the day pops like corn in the | | | | bark nor rattle.They stand so white and so |
| heatOf a sudden three o'clock. The wrenchOf | | | | redKeeping all predators at |
| time ticks in my ears. I hunchMy watch into a | | | | bay.---------------------------------------------------At The |
| shadow to hideIt's face from the white glare. | | | | Center"In Emergency Push To |
| Inside,The gold hands turn green and catchOn the | | | | Open,"The automatic doors read on the |
| number six. I light a matchTo see if they will stick | | | | unwashed, dribbly glass.The further, outer door |
| thereAs the fountains, with pines in their sprays, | | | | carries the same remark.Between the first and |
| shareTheir fate, dwindle and dry in the lightAnd | | | | second lies a cross-hatchedBlock-built carpet, |
| Rome gets marching into the | | | | mole-grey brown.The door to the |
| night.---------------------------------------------------A | | | | entrance-garden has the same dribblesAnd moves |
| Swallow Speeds OnMorning: Two eggs, coffee | | | | just as automatically.Inside the inside, thick nurses, |
| with cream.A fly noisily zigs and zags.Noon: Ham | | | | men and women, pad by.Television gurgles softly, |
| and cheese on bread.A butterfly silently flits and | | | | patients and personnel murmur,Little clicks and |
| flits.Evening: Steak and French Fries.A hummingbird | | | | taps identify heels and wheels,Medical machinery |
| looks on while hovering.Night: Four cookies and | | | | and dropped tongue depressors.Outside the |
| milk.A bat menacingly | | | | outside, greenstuffs, andTraffic tooting and |
| zooms.--------------------------------------------------- | | | | squealing.Between the inside and the outside lies |
| TidepoolInvent the waves and vivid pools with | | | | aCross-hatched, block-built, mole-grey |
| me,Cool, industrious, dibbling at our toes,And let | | | | brownCarpet.Jack Wilson is a poet and artist from |
| your knees snatch back at laps of sea.Wade | | | | Los Angeles and Phoenix. His poems have been |
| deeper toward the hole where seaweed | | | | published in the New York Times, The New York |
| grows,Kick lively now, hitch up your sagging | | | | Herald-Tribune and numerous magazines. He |
| suitAnd hold my hand. If you cannot see,Loosen | | | | founded a poetry magazine in Tempe, Arizona |
| your grip, sit on my friendly foot,Relax and let | | | | called "All Too Soon", which was distributed at |
| your hair float out to me.I’ll pull you to a | | | | Changing hands Bookstore and elsewhere. |