New Pretexts

He recalled the young newspaper sellers, winter,

         in the underground Station.

Sparrows of the schoolyards in front of the foggy

         windows.

Those small children’s beds in the hospital — how

         guiltless.

Just before Christmas, it was raining; they were singing

         Christmas carols, down in the city.

“What do I have?” he asked. No one answered. The question

looked elsewhere. Same with poetry, elsewhere, with

         the kitchen apron

warming up our yesterday meal. “Yes, and poetry, he said,

or rather a few words and long in-between pauses”.

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