Patient language, always waiting to be
Misused, waiting for it—unless, of course,
You’re from the South, in which case “waiting on”
(There he goes again!), but then in my way
Of speaking “waiting on” is not “awaiting”
But rather bustling about in its black tie
Bringing the latkes or the dolcelatte-
Waiting for it to come around again,
The pow! on the jaw with regulation gloves,
The stylized oof! in the midsection, the blort!
Of regurgitation as it all comes home,
The body of the letter being slugged
And all the spirit twisted out of it
By the marauders of the metaphor,
Why should we so invoke you, anyway,
Like some sculptor making plaster casts
Of her mallet and chisels? or like another
One, carving Carrara marble boxes
Of Kleenex which all of us might have to use,
Not just herself? Well, in that patience lies
A swift, mercurial agency we’ve come to count
On, for turning up the suffering in the act,
The covert action in the passiveness,
As if your strength were mirrored in the world.
Here then, at the most recent end of things,
It’s time for some sort of acknowledgment
Of what makes it the case strangely that I’m
In dire straits in Detroit, and on the streets –
Without making Detroit an everywhere—
And the words that in fiction only “bring”
Me there, ring true and truly ring me there.
And Most of All, I Wanna Thank
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