I'll begin with a poem called "Incident in a Rose Garden,"
which is a sort of story poem with three characters speaking.
I think you'll recognize how that works as the poem goes.
It's a familiar story, really, with a twist at the end.
And I should say, also, I think that it's
set somewhat in the past when people had gardeners to take
care of their rose gardens.
And therefore, the language is slightly old-fashioned.
"The gardener came running, an old man out of breath.
Fear had given him legs.
Sir, I encountered Death just now among the roses.
Thin as a scythe, he stood there.
I knew him by his pictures.
He had his black coat on, black gloves, a broad black hat.
I think he would have spoken, seeing his mouth stood open,
big it was, with white teeth.
As soon as he beckoned, I ran.
I ran until I found you.
Sir, I am quitting my job.
I want to see my sons once more before I die.
I want to see California.
We shook hands.
He was off.
And there stood Death in the garden,
dressed like a Spanish waiter.
He had the air of someone who, because he
likes arriving at all appointments early,
learns to think himself patient.
I watched him pinch one bloom off and hold it
to his nose, a connoisseur of roses, one bloom and then
another.
They strewed the Earth around him.
Sir, you must be that stranger who threatened my gardener.
This is my property, Sir.
I welcome only friends here.
Death grinned.
And his eyes lit up with a pale glow of those lanterns
that workmen carry sometimes to light
their way through the dusk.
Now with great care, he slid the glove from his right hand
and held that out in greeting, a little cage of bone.
Sir, I knew your father.
And we were friends at the end.
As for your gardener, I did not threaten him.
Old men mistake my gestures.
I only meant to ask him to show me to his master.
I take it you are he."