J A C K G I L B E R T
Alone
I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died. But if she did, I knew
it would be as a lady in a long white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody's dalmatian. I meet
the man walking her on a leash
almost every week. He says good morning
and I stoop down to calm her. He said
once that she was never like that with
other people. Sometimes she is tethered
on their lawn when I go by. If nobody
is around, I sit on the grass. When she
finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap
and we watch each other's eyes as I whisper
in her soft ears. She cares nothing about
our mystery. She likes it best when
I touch her head and tell her small
things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy the way it always did.
_________________________
J A C K G I L B E R T
Collected Poems
Knopf
I started to type out a poem by Jack Gilbert today — in fact, two poems,
and I was going to tell you how the first poem, no need to say which poem,
after typing five lines and more to go, vanished before my eyes. I touched no buttons
but anyone who knows computer mechanics knows full well a button or something had to
have been touched for the poem to vanish. No, the poem simply vanished, probably because
someone wanted this to be so. I let it be so. I started on a second poem and the same disappearance occurred. I then made my way through a third poem, the one here for us.
