Is it disorganization, losing track
of the files, the plans, the chess moves?
Or is it what moves us to slaughter?
I try to recall that lamb of Gerald Stern's
that holds up the cup
to his own ravaged side.
I stupidly turn down the cheering of
happy fans (Kansas? Duke?)
and walk into an empty room
where only the stupid light
of the stupidly descending sun
says to me, "Sunday afternoon--
body of the stupid lamb."
Once more I forget what to mumble
as someone asks me the crossword
for next to Arkansas, and I wish
her there--here--to hand me
the yellowed newspaper, the smile
I forgot to wear
when time was easy, possible,
and all I knew how to wear
was the motheaten,
shabby habit of a scowl,
a stupid grin.
