I am writing the poem of anger,
and it has never been so easy
to write a poem, but when I tell
the poem to slow down, take it
easy, he leaps from the desk,
races down the stairs and out
the door. Now the poem of anger
is running through crowds of people
hurrying home from work. The poem
is crossing the street without looking
both ways, he is not holding anyone’s
hand! I run behind, trying to close
the distance, but the poem of anger
sprints like a young god merrily to
the chase. He turns up a side-street,
and I know these ancient trees, these
antique lamp-posts and picket fences.
Looking neither right nor left, the poem
dashes up the front walk to your porch,
a quick knock, the door opens and he
is inside. I cling precariously to your
trellis of dangerous roses and peer
through the window. The poem of anger
leans back in the chair where I used
to sit. You have changed into my favorite
blue dress. You stand at the sideboard,
mixing cocktails in a silver container.
