Tom says I'm terrible at keeping this thing updated. But here's a new poem! Actually, it was written last month. But Peter Sears gave it a thumbs up, so I'm posting it anyway. By the way, Peter's poem "The Beast" will be in his new book, and I can't wait to check it out. (The best poem? The one about driving His Weakness around in the backseat of his car.) So, here's to you, Peter.
In the single-room cabin he built on the river
he scatters his fishing poles like dirty socks
and survives on noodles, bananas, and trout.
He once told a priest he’d wanted to get married
but never got around to it, which was a lie
because he had been around to it when he was in his twenties
but he didn’t see what other men saw in their wives,
recipes, pearls, white whicker trash cans in the john.
He wanted a woman who cleaned his rifle and disappeared.
He doesn’t think he’s grown too old to attract a woman
nor does he believe his cabin has made him a hermit.
He’s hip enough to hold a grudge against Jane Fonda
and young enough to keep a condom in his wallet.
His father used to call him Buck, and his mother once said
he moved from room to room so quietly as a child
he reminded her of a beautiful beast being hunted.
He sometimes pretends he is a magical young buck
and wades into the river without his fishing line, just to stand there,
majestically, like he’s balancing a heavy crown on his head.
He can’t imagine a wife understanding this. The fish
have come so close he’s felt their fins slapping his boots.