Labor Day, 2003

A cat was in the garden. Others soon appeared.
Short hairs. Long hairs. For a while I made
A thing of it, with the little calls that
I pitched to them and the attention in my look.

Celeste, it was not a good afternoon,
Blocked as I was by angry thoughts
Of you. Your selfishness in giving
To others and withholding from me.

Have I told you about the movie theater
Near to where I sat and the X-rated films
Once featured on its marquee? You could have
Found me there with a pint of brandy

One snowy Christmas day. But the theater
Has cleaned up, and so have I. The drinking
Thing is gone, and I now have videos
Deep in the underwear drawer, for home TV.

(Camp you’ve heard about, Celeste. How
The counselor for Christ found my pack of smokes
And nearly twisted off my ear in seeking
A confession that the devil had me good.)

It’s night now. Tomorrow is work, but the real thing
Is my heart— the pain when I’m apart from you
In the judgments that I make. I want them to disappear,
Like those cats that crept into the bush, out of sight of me.

September 2003