My Friend Says He Has Doubts


Consider these doubts to be like a service
who comes to visit unannounced
with its probes and charts as an insurance
safety or quality inspection
for the general good of the art
as well as the good of the poet’s health.

My home care worker came by today.
Will he close my notebooks like a restaurant
will I lose my license to live in these thoughts
is it worth it to keep reading up
to keep feeling  to just be open  to
write out what serves me to maybe someone else.

Fuck him.  Outside my window is a crazy dog
Here you crazy dog   here’s a piece of bread.

___________________________________________

My friend called to cancel lunch at the Arts Club
because he was depressed about continuing
to write.  I wrote him back.  The last two lines
are what her friend Joe used to say when
he’d hear Susannah and me arguing something

about poetry   he said it was an old folksong
from his family.  Sicilian.    He left Susannah.
Susannah became partner to an eminent
philosopher.    Joe became a prominent
physician.   I was the one

who became the poet
I guess
I’m the dog
Here’s the piece of bread