The Butcher Knife

for Karl Glueck

My father made life with a butcher knife
between himself and my mother That’s how
I found them laid in bed one night when I
couldn’t sleep He said he couldn’t sleep either But I couldn’t displace the knife
He pounded the streets on his bicycle He couldn’t keep still, his business was waiting,
his pantlegs drove him home His butt
would endure the indignity of the saddle He strapped the knife to the frame
When fireworks exploded, or a truck backfired,
my father would disappear And there
we’d find him under the bed, clutching the knife And when he emerged with his life in his hands
he resumed the one that he’d borrowed
and somehow failed to return.

Kenya

The sparkle in your eyes is happiness,
grateful acknowledgement of home again
where the fortress watches sunsets blaze
into Lake Travis, where sisters wait and lilies bloom
We hear you’ve been to Kenya?
and you answer, Yes, tall palms, orchids and hibiscus
business is good, projects are on track Steely twinkle, thin lipped smile

beard turned white hiding lines of worry
posture tight, holding your heart in
cordial pats to shoulder blades You’ve been to Kenya

neglecting to mention the tug at elbow
sudden exits through hidden gates
Mercedes side swiping mazes
garbage, excrement, road kill, screams

sprinting on foot through broken fence
lifting off before the door is latched
tree line skimming, ragtag mercenaries
wasting ammunition Missions for a people

bent on lifting off your head You’ve been to Kenya again? –
and you tell us
that nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Mattress Companion

These days I sleep with a fat New Yorker beside me
at my age one takes what one can get There are better ones I could choose, it’s true,
more pliable, accommodating, of better quality

but this one has a yellow attraction all his own:
Heavy rustling shakes the mattress at late night
a careless spine that heaves its weight onto my chest
and startles me awake when dozing It matters little

that my resting space is usurped for I have found
I can lay my head on, cradle pat and stroke
inhale his breathing fire, accept desire of grasping
attention, then letting go and I rock with the flow

and motion full bodied, monstrous, going back
in time more years than I am willing to acknowledge
experienced, hugely rounded, naturally corpulent
virtues I can trust, offerings of mutual benefit
To be fair, I must thank the parents who bear such sages
mighty mass who shares my nights: Regards and deep
affection to editors: The New Yorker Book of Poems
and all its eight hundred and thirty five pages.