Poem About December 3rd
the morning was a cigar Marc was
smoking with a nut-bodied mediumness
that I gave him for the good poems he read
to us all it was too warm he said to save it
sorry I couldn’t wait so he smoked his cigar
and told me he was smoking his cigar
for it was too warm not to yes
the weather makes us do all sorts of awful things
we listen to the particles of each day
hear them mutter tiny instructions
and we must match a good thing with
something even better (this is called celebrating)
and so too we will later fill a icy gap with
wine and candy (this is called recovering)
and slowly the morning caught on
it smelled the nutty undertones and opened up
its sky a little wider over Newmarket New Hampshire
over a bleached porch by a brown bay
where Marc smoked his Julius Caesar
while the snow melted the muddy fields
to a last bean-sized patch of white
in the shadow of a spruce
and this Marc is cause for celebration
