like Don in Key West

milkweed palms


Hobo lounged by the great gray Ocean
River, his old hide detached
a little from his mind,
like Don in Key West, his one-

time winter host (at the Q Motel).
Distanced a little from the
whitecaps, red & blue,
that molder to a stucco frieze of Hell

sometimes.  He remembers wild violets
that peek beneath gray toes
of an elder copper beech, whose
crown shades Providence; those roots

drill deeper than the black & white
of shaky party platforms.
Down beneath worms
mining resentment & indifference, the bite

of greedy centipedes, the slugs
cold as a winter street
in Minneapolis, whose neat
chewing fattens themselves alone (bugs

do not think about their neighbors).
Whose murmurous gray arms
have framed the milkweed farms
of metaphysical Hope, that anchors

Roger Williams’ canoe –
Love’s almond chariot
that smiling Faith built
out of flocks of can-do

monarch wings, green palms
circumferencing the gray
scallops of yesterday –
twin limestone radials (emblems

of spousal harmony, e pluribus
unum).  Whose tap sinks toward
the center of the gourd,
the hearth Love stokes, wells tears...

& where a voice from her grey mirror
sang in Hobo’s ear –
Behold the Platonic Year
revolve at last, aboard my double-decker

Greyhound!  When the game of suits
& spades & royal clubs
gives way to hearts purple
& ruddy diamondstwin 52s

orbit an orange origami octagon,
one Chinese lantern, standing
in the night gardenbring
Hobo to the table, thenIt’s done!

He pondered pumpkin murmurings,
& mooned there, by the muddy
banks.  The breeze of poetry...
only a feeling (sighed).  Our burdenings

borne by that humble muse, whose trust
in some deep loving cloud
grey Manitou’s abode
will wave back (Noah’s buoyant crust).



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