Urban Pastoral

The curtains haven't opened up all day
The little dog thrusts out a curious nose
Hoping someone new will come and play.
She settles down. The curtains slowly close.
A cat with matted hair struts up the walk,
Pauses and licks herself, then ambles by.
The nose emerges in a sudden shock
Of righteous indignation, and an eye
Glares outward with a growl. But the cat
Ignores it, wanders off, and disappears.
The nose retracts, and leaves the curtain flat
Except a corner, where two little ears
Are barely visible, to listen for
The cat, should she again threaten the door.

Imagined Horrors

The night is long and full of ghosts
Not of the dead--we vanish when we die--
But of ideas. The unimagined hosts
Flitter inanely in the daytime sky
But hover closer when the night draws in.
They try to burrow deep into our souls
Prompting our dreams of saintliness or sin
Pursuing always their own selfish goals:
To be remembered, thought, and given wing
Within a living mind. I cannot sleep
Or they will occupy my everything
And I, who never contemplate the deep
Will find myself, despite my inclination
Engaged in sudden ratiocination.

DBev

When I was twenty-three, I took his class

And when I wrote, he'd read, and he'd respond.

A twenty-three-year-old can be an ass

But he was kind, and patient, and beyond.

When I was twenty-six, we taught together

And I learned just a little of his ways;

If I can teach, then he was my bellwether

Leading with subtle hints and cautious praise.

When I was thirty-one, we met again

(He gave a talk I managed to attend);

At thirty-two, he sent a card that then

Implied I'd graduated to a friend.

The last I heard of him was that December

And all that I can do now is remember.