In honor of Bernie Sanders

Speaks for itself ...



Music of Rich

Beneath solicitous streetlamps
a dozen matrons
ease themselves out of the Club.
Their legs, like clappers
in the stout bells of their skirts,
toll Money, Money, Money.

The men attending them
emit a balding glow
above pale, papery shirtfronts.
Fruit of Our Labors, they chant
in file along the sidewalk
under servile trees.

Who gave them the keys to the city,
these people as noisy
as pots and pans
but proud and not so serviceable?

Tomato Promiscuity

Another garden poem...


Tomato Promiscuity

You are the too fond parent.
Setting them out in May,
twenty-four inches of bare soil
between each lonesome plant,
you tousle the fuzzy tip
of the young tomato,
pity the straggle of root strands
clinging to your hand
and the seed leaf dangling
like a broken arm.

So tenuous is their first week
in the world of weather
that you visit your little ones daily.
Sometimes they topple forward,
as if to lay their heads on the executioner's block:
then the grubby cutworm moves aside his stone
and trundles towards them;
the flat-footed rabbit descends
from the sky;
the pederast wind blows up
and loves them until, dead threads,
they disappear entirely.

All this you must prevent.
And if you succeed,
soon your charges stand again
at full attention, too pithy
for cutworms, reassuring you
crows can't hurt them anymore.
Now their business is pleasure:
drinking, rustling for manure,
luffing their limber bodies up and down
to win over wind's wrestling.
Your solicitous wrists
and dusty ankles
are no longer required.

Come July the tomatoes flower,
sensing they're not alone.
And then they rush outwards
into one another's warm green arms.
The rest is a very old story:
how you tried to keep things straight,
how you'll never be sure in the end
whose tomatoes are whose.