Poem 2:
He’s building his rocket ship, my boy,
small compact arm and elbow sweeping
over magnetic tiles
the colors of rainbow.
I’m going to Africa, he says but notes
the ship doesn’t have a door,
but he’ll get in,
we’ll all get in, Noah’s Ark-like,
a propos of today.
It rained all day this day,
hasn’t it for everyone at least once
or haven’t we felt
the desultory feeling
that the day will not abate.
thoughts overtaking our senses.
Or perhaps it will continue
day melding into day
the willows opening up
divulging their lesson that
greedy roots are like wanderers in the Desert
who do not believe
who do not believe the manna will come.
But not to worry,
he assures me,
and creates an entrance,
a hospital jury-rigged out of a convention hall.
What part of Africa is it in, I ask,
A desert?
Yes, he answers.
And what animals are in it?
A gila monster, he says,
a harsh creature
gulping down others whole
like this thing that elides over and through us now,
a storm cloud that presses on through a long tunnel
seemingly without surcease but then changes
into faint sun before twilight.