Listening
He was an older man
wearing older clothes
making his way through
the Salvation Army store with
what looked to be a used stethoscope
in his hand — who knows where
he found it in the place —
by the time he got to a quiet
corner of the used books
he put the two loose ends of the
stethoscope into his ears and
the other end under his old
coat over his heart
and listened with
his eyes closed
Old Guys
Lots of old guys still writing poetry. Poetry nobody really wants. Old guys that don’t go to the AWP. Guys that write lots about old girlfriends, or roads not taken. Guys hiding half their faces in photographs. Balding guys with hats, caps, scarves, I know. All white guys. They once ruled the roost. Filled anthologies. Not these old guys, they came after the model white guys ruled, and in came ethnic and many colored, and women storming and true. The old guys, the ones that haven’t died bad deaths, early deaths, drink and drug deaths, blow-my-head-off deaths, now write some of the softest and maybe even sweetest poems I know. Many being insomniacs, they write these poems when you sleep. If the poems are terrific, it means you are getting something done while you sleep. These old guys will give you their poems. They’ve about given up, but not quite. Like old birds you can’t help but feed them. Talk to one, you’ll get a song.
Friend
I saw him last
before the big
snow, then we
burrowed into
the woods for
months with a
few lamps, by
spring there
he was on his
tractor and the
mud road call-
ing my name
waving an arm
__________________________________
Bob Arnold
BEAUTIFUL DAYS
Longhouse, 2013
