I think I'm just going to end with this.
"What the Living Do," which is sort of a title
poem of this collection.
And it's about us, I guess, all of us guys still living.
And it's in the form of a letter to my brother, John,
written years after he died.
"What the Living Do."
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days.
Some utensil probably fell down there.
And the drainer won't work but smells dangerous.
And the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called.
This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again.
The sky's a deep headstrong blue,
and the sunlight pours through the open living room windows
because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving or dropping
a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: this is what the living do.
And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks
in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee
down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it
again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush.
This is it.
Parking, slamming the car door, shut
in the cold, what you called that yearning, what you finally
gave up.
We want the spring to come, and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss,
we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself
in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video
store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing
so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face,
and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless.
I am living.
I remember you.
Thank you.