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Collected Poetry

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Beating Heart, Dancing Feet  

  Beating Heart 


I want to eat some food.  I want to eat
some food in town with a quiet group
of men and women who have chosen
to come to the diner alone—
some in suits, some in pantsuits,
some in work clothes and boots.
I want to eat the simple pleasure
of eating food, enjoying the moment.
I happen to get sick.  I want to get
sick and then I want to feel better.  I want
to feel the importance of feeling better.
I want my illness to fade into strength
and the incipient qualities of well-being.
I want my heart to beat.  I want my heart
to beat hard at the appropriate moments.
I want my clothes to fit.
I want my hair to grow.
I want my hair to grow into something
that will be admired by others.
I want to be admired by others.
I want this to happen in an offhand way.
I want to know goodness.  I want my heart
to be good.  I want your clothes to fit
and your heart to beat in a quiet way.
I want you to have food and to be merry.
I want my smile to greet you.  I want to see
you standing in the yard, in my yard.
I want to see you standing there with
your heart beating in an offhand way,
brown leaves scattered about your feet.
I want to think how appropriate your
boots are.  I want the yard to accept you in
an effortless way without sarcasm or grace.
I want to find you standing there
and not hesitate to meet you
among the brown leaves and the cloudy garden.
I want not to remember
that I saw you in the diner among the tableware
and the napkins and the vaporous, winter food.
Under the clouds I want to greet you
with no thought of your heart beating
or your clothes fitting in an admirable way.
I want the warmth to reach my loins
in a slight, soft-spoken way.  I want you.
I want you to want me.  I want us to share
some coffee in a warm room with broad windows
curtained with rain.  I want to smoke
my pipe in front of you and the open fire.
I want to take care of you when you're ill.
I want to brush the hair away from your temples.
I want to feed you when you're hungry.




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