WEBVTT

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I think I'm just going
to end with this.

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"What the Living Do,"
which is sort of a title

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poem of this collection.

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And it's about us, I guess,
all of us guys still living.

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And it's in the form of a
letter to my brother, John,

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written years after he died.

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"What the Living Do."

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Johnny, the kitchen sink
has been clogged for days.

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Some utensil probably
fell down there.

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And the drainer won't
work but smells dangerous.

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And the crusty
dishes have piled up

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waiting for the plumber
I still haven't called.

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This is the everyday
we spoke of.

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It's winter again.

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The sky's a deep
headstrong blue,

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and the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows

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because the heat's on too high
in here and I can't turn it off.

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For weeks now,
driving or dropping

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a bag of groceries in the
street, the bag breaking,

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I've been thinking: this
is what the living do.

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And yesterday, hurrying
along those wobbly bricks

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in the Cambridge sidewalk,
spilling my coffee

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down my wrist and
sleeve, I thought it

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again, and again later,
when buying a hairbrush.

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This is it.

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Parking, slamming
the car door, shut

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in the cold, what you called
that yearning, what you finally

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gave up.

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We want the spring to come,
and the winter to pass.

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We want whoever to call or
not call, a letter, a kiss,

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we want more and more
and then more of it.

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But there are moments, walking,
when I catch a glimpse of myself

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in the window glass, say, the
window of the corner video

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store, and I'm gripped
by a cherishing

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so deep for my own blowing
hair, chapped face,

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and unbuttoned coat
that I'm speechless.

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I am living.

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I remember you.

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Thank you.

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