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POETRY
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It must be your turn now; you give it a run.
You’re young.
Let me see those strong arms.
He gives me another tug.
What are you holding up? You’re titanic.
I’m not titanic.
I don’t want to be titanic.
I don’t want to hold things up, or
Sink under the weight of them.
I just want to be a human being.
Like Bill in the back wing of the nursing home, saying
You won’t make me take a shower! Damn it,
I’m right with Jesus Christ, are you?
Old Bill in his camo cargo pants. And out of them. Naked and
outnumbered and scoured by students in white scrubs. They tell him he looks handsome as you
would tell a child.
I want to be a human being in your eyes.
I fed a woman called Juanita, with big, watery eyes.
Here’s some more of that oatmea
l I told her. She
coughed and choked on puree, her big eyes so red.
Are you finished, Juanita? Are you full?
And she said
How would I know that?
How would I know that?