George Held -- Four Poems

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.