in front of ee cummings’ home, perhaps a deep yell
from Dylan Thomas’ tavern table, back in 1988, 
i stood duskly staring at his iron gate, the cul-de-sac
circular drive, the crumbling sidewalk)

it was really drama i was there studying with Howard
Stein, a nice man from Columbia who Jewishly believed) 

people do not really want happiness they just endure
until it is time.  so i just stood in front of the iron gate, locked,
and stared down his sidewalk, wondering what
time my time would let me know and even if i did

know perhaps i would yell and kiss girls i didn’t know;
let them wonder what kind of crazy bastard would do
something their menfriends had never thought of doing.

in front of ee cummings’ home, shades drawn, makes
a person think all kinds of thoughts: the girl walking 
away from me just then reminded me of the girl, soft hair
like a kitfox) i shared a swing with (back in wisconsin. 

i did not marry that girl but by god the girl who walked away
from me in front of ee cummings’ home sure could have been she)
perhaps i should have yelled her name (or perhaps i should have 

written about the way she walked) right then the same way
she walked away that night so long ago so many swings ago;

no) just other thoughts, standing in front of ee cummings’ home:
i remember the blandness of color, like indian grass, like a writer 
waiting in ambush with a line, a mark of punctuation) so subtle,
so silent that when read aloud it truly mattered) when on paper

more like a mosquito: unfelt, unseen, brushed away with 
the passing of a hand) like the thought of a girl walking, just
walking, like my thoughts standing in front of ee cummings’ iron
gated, shades drawn, cul-de-sac circular crumbling sidewalk.

i waited hoping, even dead, he might open the door, trod down the walk, 
clasp my hand and put parenthesis on either side of my breath); 
either that or invite me in for strong, black coffee.  i needed to ask
him about girls and swings and how long one needs to write 

before scar tissue forms on a thought; how many punctuation marks)
does a life really need before becoming a poem; how many capital letters
does one delete from his list of friends, from names of the past.

standing in front of ee cummings’ home perhaps a deep yell 
away before the girl disappeared, i knew i would never see her 
again and another thought crossed my mind,
a thought i’ve always about wondered 

what i really want to know is
                    how do you like your blueeyed boy 
                               Mister Death?


© 2007 by Tim J. Brennan. All rights reserved.