but he does not ridicule me, even in his head
when we are home for supper. I know
about the mountains of grain he buries in the forest,
but do not call him greedy, even when he is showy with it
when we are home for supper.
No one is working but
accomplishments are logged
We read “Paradise Lost” and “The Waste Land,”
our libraries are always full and
Rimbaud remains a major figure
for all the young men in ashes.
We are all artists, even Sam
at his numbers, Matt behind stacks of books
learning right from wrong.
Everything we make is beautiful.
One-word poems are written
everyday by novice and master, each one of them
reads the same and every one
is a masterpiece.
-- Nick Adamski