Still They Care Enough
For the most mute of Americans
Summon up a sort of pity
Who have to have their words of love
Pre-written in Kansas City.

 On the Seventh of December
I drive my '95 Nissan up a ramp
And enter Interstate-285's lanes.
Traffic weaves around me in a swirl.
Gleaming Hondas and Toyotas hurtle past,
And I wonder how many other drivers
Recall, as I, the Harbor known as Pearl.

Perdurance
Be of that breed of dog
Whose virtue is "Hold on."
You'll be here when other dogs
Are all barked out and gone.

Orthography
When Auden's first poem was published
How thrilled he must have felt--
Until he noticed that his last name
Was incorrectly spelt.

Meditation on a Word
The other day I ran into the word pratfall
(In a book, where else?) and paused
For a change to take myself a dictionary look
And thought, "Well, kiss my prat."

I remembered the T-shirted guy in the bar
Who threatened to whip my prat,
Whose girl stayed his biceptual arm
And said, "Oh, Ernie, don't be a prat."

And all my testosteronic teenaged friends
Whose conversation was filled all day,
Hanging out on a drugastore corner,
With talk of getting a "piece of prat."

And of each politician, from the President
On down the ticket, office by office,
Who, instead of steering the ship of state,
Does nothing but cover his prat.

I will think about this word now
On many a morning as I unwind
Some paper, not for the writing of poems,
But rather for the wiping of my prat.

But some Sundays, of course, I'll recall
That scene (in the Capital B Book, where else?)
In which Jesus went riding into Jerusalem
Amid waving palms on (what else?) a prat.

Pilgrimage
If ever you go to Camden
Where Campbell's Soup was made,
Be sure to visit the little house
Where Walter Whitman stayed.

On Mickle Street some blocks away
From where Delaware waters pass
The poet lived for years and years
Expanding Leaves of Grass.

There you'll see how ordinary
Was the life that Whitman led,
Only occasionally capturing
A new line in his head.

Most poets are like the rest of us,
Struggling to pay the bills.
Few are the ones who can afford
To tramp Wordsworthian hills.

They teach in colleges and give
Workshops and seminars.
They'd rather be Bukowski-ing
In seedy dim-lit bars.

Yes, go to Camden and observe
The Muse amid kitchen ware,
And learn of the simple quiet life
Walt lived till death right there.

Then drive to Harleigh graveyard
(It will not take you long)
To see the mausoleum he designed,
Of the Self his final Song.

And when you return from Camden
One fact for sure you'll know:
At the only house Walt Whitman owned
There was no lawn to mow.