Greek Neighbor Home from the Hospital
Where he hung the bird feeder a month ago
a kind of film is covering the thin glass
and where he threw his wine glass down a bleeding heart
is starting to show under the motherly leaves.
He has walked to the wire fence three times
to study my tomatoes and he has smelled
my roses in a downward movement in which
his good leg was one anchor and his cane another.
I can tell by the clicks of triumph and the loud
rattle of his newspaper the Russians
have sold missiles to the Greek Cypriots
and Turkey is going to suffer. As I recall
he put the key to the padlock in the pot
of new lettuce and I can see his glasses
under his chair in case he panics. The wind
makes both of us smile a little and the swallows
for just a second seem to lounge, the sky
is so blue, they almost rest. He leaves his chair
by twirling, he hates their rectitude, and since
the dog is dead, and since his wife went to live
with her daughter again he closes the door by himself
and either sits in the kitchen and falls asleep
over his cane or climbs his eighteen stairs
before he turns the light on—I’ll know which
by the count of thirty, either one of which
to my way of thinking, is better than the brutal
battles they had, at least for my own sleep
over the honey locust, before his stroke
a month ago in front of the glass feeder
separating the different kinds of birdseed
into their small compartments without giving
too much away to the poisonous squirrels, poor Greek.
Greek Neighbor Home from the Hospital
Where he hung the bird feeder a month ago
a kind of film is covering the thin glass
and where he threw his wine glass down a bleeding heart
is starting to show under the motherly leaves.
He has walked to the wire fence three times
to study my tomatoes and he has smelled
my roses in a downward movement in which
his good leg was one anchor and his cane another.
I can tell by the clicks of triumph and the loud
rattle of his newspaper the Russians
have sold missiles to the Greek Cypriots
and Turkey is going to suffer. As I recall
he put the key to the padlock in the pot
of new lettuce and I can see his glasses
under his chair in case he panics. The wind
makes both of us smile a little and the swallows
for just a second seem to lounge, the sky
is so blue, they almost rest. He leaves his chair
by twirling, he hates their rectitude, and since
the dog is dead, and since his wife went to live
with her daughter again he closes the door by himself
and either sits in the kitchen and falls asleep
over his cane or climbs his eighteen stairs
before he turns the light on—I’ll know which
by the count of thirty, either one of which
to my way of thinking, is better than the brutal
battles they had, at least for my own sleep
over the honey locust, before his stroke
a month ago in front of the glass feeder
separating the different kinds of birdseed
into their small compartments without giving
too much away to the poisonous squirrels, poor Greek.