Monday, November 06, 2006


Stacks of newsprint, black and
white rustle soft in hard hands.
He clears throat, British-like
more than ever in his mid-
fifties, speaking silently of growing up
post depression i think tweed shorts
and a haircut to keep head lice away

WB Yeats is ringing
in the bee-loud garden now for him
the work is not over yet,
there will be no rising and going yet.

He boils oats and reads books
build : break-down : brick-lay
the family home
his name hung in wood grain
with a purple thistle accent

In the early morning he
lives alone
feet pad on hardwood floor
he knows so well it does not protest.
At five am he feeds the cats
and sighs out the door.


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