TRYFON TOLIDESA Perfect Day
"What?" he said,
"sit down under this tree
and what?"
"Yes," I said,
"sit down under this tree;
I want to read you a poem."
He was my
brother and we never
did things like that.
It was Sunday afternoon
with blue and cloudless light;
we were sitting underneath
a maple in our backyard
when halfway through the poem,
we began to cry.
It was good practice
for those things we never do.
Early April Evening
Instead of writing a poem
about writing a poem,
I decided to open
the window.
The spring air was growing warmer and more elastic.
I could hear young girls in tank tops
off in the semi distance
driving for the shore
windows rolled down
music flowing like their hair
and the sound of night tires
licking the moistening road.
The Greek Wedding
No plates were broken,
but dollar bills
were flung into the air
as tokens of joy
and triumph,
or tongued and slapped
onto the clarinetist's forehead
as thanks for having stirred the spirits.
Sheer expressions,
eventually falling to the floor
and trampled on
by celebrations of dancing feet;
torn by heels,
overwhelmed by the pressure
and grinding twists
of soles.
A Doctor's Analogy
"Think of it this way," he said.
"You have a lawn,
and you have dandelions on that lawn,
and you don't want the dandelions there.
You can do one of three things:
you can use a little herbicide at a time,
where after a while, the dandelions reappear;
you can use a lot of herbicide all at once,
and risk damaging your lawn,
or you can pave the entire lawn over
with asphalt."
Then I took my mother and we left.
We stopped at our favorite hot dog shop
and ordered our usual: one plain dog for her,
two for me-one plain and one chili-and fries.
We went back home and ate together:
two glasses of water, a wooden bowl of fruit,
and napkins with children holding hands
at the kitchen table.