These two girls are thinking
Of almost everything
They can think of that doesn't go
To bed right now. They've brushed
And washed as slowly
As those two other girls
In the bathroom mirror
Who are trying not to look
Sleepy either, who can hardly
Hear what their names are
As they dawdle on bare feet
To the edge of their mattresses
And pretend they've forgotten how
To climb up and lie down,
And they aren't quite sure where
They were, but they know the moment
Their ears are against those pillows
They might give in and stay
There, though they won't be
Who or what they want
To be, but will fall into place
In a story where everyone
Is asleep and will never know
When to remember why.
Have You Any Questions About Your Garden?
DAVID WAGONER
The gardener on TV wants me to think
About fertilizer. He wants me to take advantage
Of him and the season, which are apparently
Almost free of charge at the end of winter.
He'd like me to get busy and prepare
My plots, planters, beds, borders, and pots
With his blades, clippers, trowels, and pitchforks,
His rakes, hoes, hoses, and wheels within wheels.
He has, in both his clutches, packets of seeds
Like embryonic beanstalks or rainbows
Or dark-of-the-moon dust, and he's offering me
All of them for my own while there's still time
To put them where they'll prosper. Oh, he wants me
To take them off his hands or they'll go to someone
Who loves his or her garden more than I do
And understands what's beautiful and good
For him or her. He'll even throw in bulbs
If I hurry, and he wants me above all
To quit just sitting there listening to him
And get on the telephone and put something in order
Around my colorless house before it's too late
To do anything but help him make a killing
At the end of summer when the star of his show
Won't be on sale: his furious weed-whacker.
Electrocardiogram
DAVID WAGONER
I see your scribbled lyrics, illiterate heart.
Your passion for the indecipherable
Is painfully familiar. You've thumped ahead
And behind the beat so often, composing that one
Compulsive song of ours, you've started to think
You're keeping time by yourself, all to yourself,
But time is more like somebody else's money
And you and I, not singers, but gamblers,
Humming and hawing deadbeats and four-flushers.
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Poetry from The Literary Review