This next poem is called "Three Hard Sonnets."
They aren't formally sonnets, but they're short.
They go together, I guess, because I wrote them
all at once in a fit of anger.
The last one has to do with what people expect of you
or are demanding of you.
The second one is four brief dreams of death that I've had.
The first one is about things total strangers have
said to me.
"Three Hard Sonnets."
"'If you can buy all those groceries,
why do you wear those clothes?' the woman said.
The phone rang.
'If you answer our question, you can take a trip.'
'What do you think of me?' said the gambler telling me his
life.
'Are you lost?' asked the policeman.
'Why don't you smile?'
No.
She said, 'Some time I'd love to talk with you.'
He walked out the door without saying goodbye.
I parked in the driveway.
Getting out, I glimpsed the body of a tall Indian brave framed
on the floor of the station wagon.
Another time, one of those big family
dinners, we invited Uncle George and he hooked over the table
from his seat at its head.
She sewed me a red dress, but said, finish this ham.
I'm going away.
An old corpse of myself obstructed our stairwell.
I covered its face with papers and books.
Proof, proof, it sounds like something going up in smoke.
Abracadabra smoke producing the answer to nothing.
At ease, at ease, you must look at ease.
There are places for nervousness.
Stand trembling over the wastebasket
till anxiety falls in.
Beautiful, beautiful.
I have no big toe, no knee.
Compliments buried them as well as insult. Action.
OK, enough, enough.
Wrap it up."