The governor will give Homeless people sleeping bags, Let them stay the night On windswept porticos Outside his buildings Instead of your doorstep. I am talking to myself With empty rooms I cannot bear to live in.
Days of Me
When people say they miss me, I think how much I miss me too, Me, the old me, the great me, Lover of three women in one day, Modest me, the best me, friend To waiters and bartenders, hearty Laugher and name rememberer, Proud me, handsome and hirsute In soccer shoes and shorts On the ball fields behind MIT, Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym, Mutual sweat dripper in and out Of the sauna, furtive observer Of the coeducated and scantily clad, Speedy me, cyclist of rivers, Goose and peregrine falcon Counter, all season venturer, Chatterer-up of corner cops, Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers, Outwitter of panhandlers and bill Collectors, avoider of levies, excises, Me in a taxi in the rain, Pressing my luck all the way home. That's me at the dice table, baby, Betting come, little Joe, and yo, Blowing the coals, laying thunder, My foot on top a fifty dollar chip Some drunk spilled on the floor, Dishonest me, evener of scores, Eager accepter of the extra change, Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon Lifter, fervent retailer of others' Humor, blackhearted gossiper, Poisoner at the well, dweller In unsavory detail, delighted sayer Of the vulgar, off course belier Of the true me, empiric builder Newly haircutted, stickerer-up For pals, jam unpriser, medic To the self-inflicted, attorney To the self-indicted, petty accountant And keeper of the double books, Great divider of the universe And all its forms of existence Into its relationship to me, Fellow trembler to the future, Thin air gawker, apprehender Of the frameless door.