What All the Songs Add Up To: Poems
By Greg Masters
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What All the Songs Add Up To - Greg Masters
aspires.
This Week in Baseball
Mélido Pérez, still looking strong
in the 6th inning, gives up a
three-run shot to Juan Gonzalez
quieting the pennant-fevered stadium
On the replay we see
Rangers, reacting to the crack of
the bat, stepping up out of the
dugout, not to see if
but how far
Vagaries
It’s nothing specific.
It’s the accumulation
like a recipe.
The way the ingredients
affect each other and
make the whole.
It’s a changing whole.
Not even a snapshot
stops it.
It’s only a part
taken up in the momentum
of the instants gathered.
Maps help only in the particulars.
I’m vaguer than that.
The calendar doesn’t gauge
the yearning to contain
more than the information
and pleasures and pains
of passing days.
I want it tidy
like compacted trash.
All the fibrillations
answering the breezes.
Voices echoing, footsteps
solid against the floorboards.
It’s in the air
that immeasurable substance
alien and benign
enveloping, porous and peculiar.
A pigeon on the windowsill
we push a piece of strawberry
out to, a three-year-old and I.
You’d be so nice to
come home to, a lyric
suddenly played back on my
inner frequency.
Birds singing, that’s been good.
My friend next door on
hearing me home knocks to
borrow bleach for an ink stain
on a new white blouse.
Maybe it’ll work, I hope so,
I doubt it, good luck, it didn’t.
This is a summation of its parts.
That indefinable but urgent
broadcast of convergences.
There it is.
Exactly as it has to be.
Who am I to interfere?
Tiny Portraits
Dutch Treat
Marjolein, not so sure of
her English, calls from Holland
to ask: Do gulls glide
or sail in the air
*
New File Cabinets
I’m getting myself organized,
I tell Nellie. You’re
always getting yourself
organized, says Nellie.
*
Be kinder to yourself
I just said at the kitchen
table to myself
*
Minor Bus Disaster
Nellie, I’m so sorry
I told you to go up to
14th Street to get the M1 Limited
It, in fact, stops at 9th Street
Where we were
*
Vyt
What a great day
I had with Vyt
He’s the kind of person who
you realize later
has made you available to
stuff you might not
on a routine day
be so eager to
get connected to
*
A box of tea has disappeared
from my apartment
Look behind the stove,
says Lorna. She always
has answers. Not necessarily
to my questions.
*
These, my friends,
sustain me through the years.
Precious Gifts, Stolen Goods
I was standing far away from you
In a public place a public time
And I had to let you talk it up
With some certain friends of mine
I was held behind a wall of rules
That I found myself complaining to
Stopping me from going over there
And saying what I wanted to
I who never gave up beauty
Had to make it