So a couple more poems from this book
and then I'll get into my new book.
I had a Greek neighbor, I used to live in a house, which my--
which my-- Pat my former wife lives
in now, which was in a city called Easton, PA.
Well, everybody raised their hand
if I say, Easton, PA if you know where it is, fantastic.
It's the oldest brick house in Easton and it's a double house.
So that everything on one side is a mirror vision
of what's on the other side and there was a Greek couple there,
gentleman from Greece who died last year.
But I think he lived there for 35 years
and he knew about four words of English.
And he sold hot dogs in the square I understand.
If he would smile at me and you sit
there reading his Greek newspapers, a small yard,
he was on his side and I was at my side reading the New York
Times.
A small American newspaper.
And this poem is called "Greek neighbor
home from the hospital" and I always
wanted to read him the poem.
In fact, I think I did once and he smiled.
[LAUGHTER]
"Where he hung the bird feeder a month ago,
a film was covering the thin glass.
And where he threw his wine glass down,
a bleeding heart starting to show under the motherly leaves.
He has walked to the wire fence three times
to study my tomatoes and he has smelled my roses
in a downward movement in which his good leg was one
anchor and his cane another.
I can tell by the clicks of triumph
and the loud rattle of his newspaper,
the Russians have sold missiles to the Greek Cypriots
and Turkey is going to suffer.
As I recall, he put the key to the padlock
in the plot of new lettuce and I can
see his glasses under his chair in case he panics.
The wind makes both of us smile a little
and the swallows for just a second seem to lounge.
The sky is so blue, they almost rest.
He leaves his chair by twirling, he hates their rectitude
and since the dog is dead and since his wife went
to live with her daughter again, he closes the door by himself.
And either sits in the kitchen and falls asleep over his cane
or climbs his 18 stairs before he turns the light on.
I'll know which by the count of 30, either one of which
to my way of thinking is better than the brutal battles
they had.
At least for my own sleep over the honey
locust before his stroke a month ago
in front of the glass feeder, separating the different kinds
of bird seed into their small compartments,
without giving too much away to the poisonous
squirrels for Greek."