Searching for the poem in the cat’s purr

the days grow shorter, still
poems have already been written on this
by the window where the webs roost and the sun sets

you, tucked in the crook of my side,
both of us seeking warmth on a day
neither of us should be cold

the whiskey goes down like fire
and poems have been written about this, too:
sad love songs that end in the solace of a swallow

of too many swallows
each day a whole gulp of swallows, 
feathers scratching at our windows

and our tv screens 
and our throats
until there is nothing left to say

the poems all written up
tidied and locked
in the dry box of a clerk’s desk

like hopes for November. 

unveiling

Rumors of War
On a Wednesday night
in our New South,
a black man

astride a horse
sees the cold, almost-
ripe moon for the first time.

heavy drapes hang
on the bronze bolts of his hair
for forty full minutes 

in the sinking light,
tugged free at last by an unnamed fireman
as a marching band plays. 

so like the old Capital: all pomp and letting go
by degrees. it’s how the papers will spin it, anyway,
ghosts murmuring softly into the rain

while the crowd cheers
and the politicos pat themselves
under their wide umbrella-grins.

the generals down the block
are not moved. maple leaves
blush red in the late fall air.

next night, just across the river,
music spills for the first time
in a white-bricked café, 

full-ish house, applause.
a pink-haired kid with a violin has struck
up Ashokan Farewell, another song 

on a playlist of our beautiful dead.
like most people, we can’t see the monuments
from here, nor—most days—the ghosts.

it’s as if nothing has changed,
nothing significant at all, except
the moon, now full, 

looking down
on a slightly different city.

on the first day of autumn, no bite in the air

there is chatter in the café, but not enough
to drown the silence in the kitchen, not
enough to distract from the sticky smudged drops
on the windows, which are
not enough to tempt the flies who gather instead
around the bar, by the open bottles, in your hair;
not enough hours to make something worthwhile, not
enough dollars to not worry; not enough rain
in the cotton-capped sky, not enough sincerity
to draw out a smile, not enough metaphor to hide,
not enough words not enough to explain,
not enough energy to run, not enough
to make her want to stay.