Four Poems George Held
Corrections
Nature
gave us names for our flaws,
Like
a harelip or buckteeth,
both
of which can be corrected,
that
is, made correct in the view
of
the community at large.
But
before surgical or dental
technique
made such corrections
commonplace,
the hare-lipped
and
bucktoothed suffered.
My
dad once dismissed my sister’s date
As
“pigeon-breasted,” but we knew
Dad’s
mulish behavior was a reflex.
He
disparaged our mom as birdbrained
But
he enjoyed the humor of Judy Canova
Despite
her buckteeth and faux birdbrain
And
he laughed at Lily Tomlin’s horse laugh.
He’d
made a silent self-correction.
Speeding toward
Oblivion
Another
birthday
And
the days speed us
Toward
Oblivion.
The
older we get,
The
faster our expiration
Date
zings toward us.
Hang
on to the arm rest—
This
bus is out of control
On
the highway to Oblivion,
Pop.
20,000,000,000
And
counting. Can’t keep
That
dang sign up to date.
Wave
goodbye to the gang
Who
saw us off—off
The
cliff to Oblivion.
Come Back, Shame
What’s
the color of shame?
Envy
is green, fear is white,
embarrassment
red,
but
shame?
Is
shame colorless as spit,
translucent
as quartz,
invisible
as a glass pane?
Can
the Too-Big-to-Fail feel
shame
for any act
they
initiate? Can they feel
shame
more than a beet?
Still,
when someone
shames
himself,
we
can smell it.
Inventory
I
watch my step on every step
as
I descend the subway stairs
like
old Hephaestus on his way
to
the hearth, gone in the legs,
scull
more scalp than hair,
once-cancerous
ear sporting new lobe,
yet
I still hear well enough
to
tell bad poetry at readings;
my
one sighted eye has a plastic lens,
corrected
to 20-20,
my
yellowed teeth still bite and chew,
though
most are capped or filled;
my
crooner’s voice is now a croak,
and
my beard grizzled;
my
lungs and heart still sound
and
my weight steady, though
my
lower back often aches,
though
I stretch daily and hope it cooperates;
my
cock still stirs, sex still thrills,
but
once a week gives me my fill;
my
hands unsteadied by an “essential”
tremor,
my skin wears a hundred tags;
my
legs, uh, the stiff legs that started me
on
this journey: won’t they ever be
limber
again? How they would drive
me
to the hoop and propel me
down
the court and let me leap
for
a rebound, but “rebound”
is
now a word from the past,
on
which I will not dwell,
since
each day brings promise
of
some new nourishment
or
ailment—which brings me to my feet:
may
they bear me long as my legs can creep.
