For Sasha (revised)

He struck off into the park

but at ten to 3 was himself struck

by the rotting branch of an old maple tree.

He was crowned mid-stride.

He might've sat beneath that tree,

lifted his eyes to the cold city skies

to script a new constellation of designs. 

But he was knocked out mid-stride.

He might've been killed outright.

But he was laid flat mid-stride.

His mind will never be what it might have been.

He was benighted mid-stride.

For Sasha

He struck off into the park
but at ten to 3 was himself struck
by the rotting branch of an old maple tree.
He was sat weeping mid-stride.

He might've sat beneath that tree,
lifted his eyes to the cold city skies
to script a new constellation of designs.
But he was sat weeping mid-stride.

He might've been killed outright.
But he was sat weeping mid-stride.
His mind will never be what it might have been.
He was sat weeping mid-stride.

Also That Week

The week Barbara Jordan dies, January 18, 1996,

the universe brightens in apparent magnitudes of eloquence:

the Hubble sights 40-billion more galaxies,

scholars agree a 1612 elegy is Shakespeare's,

and Cupid, lost in the shadows of a Fifth Avenue rotunda,

is rediscovered: "Good light made all the difference."

Also that week Rushdie emerges from fatwa solitude

to read at the New York City Public Library,

where, among the literati, a certain film star sits in perfect view:

An almost cinematographic silver light graces the ballroom.

It's been a tragic, magnificent week. I want to stare

but a glance as I bask in Rushdie's prose will have to do.

In Case of Fire

(crit, please)

In case of fire, what to do for books:
Look first to mice and sneaky mites that must,
like fire, feed on paper; to ash, dust.
Do not let books pile up in foreign nooks
and crannies, bone-dry. Back up your e-books,
Kindled, Googled, Nooked. Press save a lot. Lust
for literature serves the household trust.
Love books, and feel how books love back, for books
both embrace and cradle. Beware despots.
Memorize. Read aloud walking around.
To flout censors and other dumbass clots,
whence obscurity, build way underground
an archive, fire-proofed, humidified,
and stock the prize of tyranny defied.

Arlene

Dawn & Barbie

They're not mine but I want them to be free
to be bankers, soldiers, lawyers, bakers,
the architects of their own destiny.

They are nine and ten, contradictory
at every turn, flowering heartbreakers.
They're not mine, but I want them to be free,

like Rose Red and Snow White on their fairy
tale quest but without hags or conjurers.
The architects of their own destiny,

they'll happily attend school, acid-free,
and be safe as larkspurs and cockleburrs.
They're not mine but I want them to be free:

Armed with poison leaf, like Dawn & Barbie
accessorized with spiky heels and furs,
the architects of their own destiny.

If they were mine, ballet for karate,
spurs for purrs; for fairy wands, rapiers.
They're not mine but I want them to be free,
the architects of their own destiny.