Exhibit A
by Doug Cox
…everything seems possible
—Robert Hass, “Museum”
Let the mother tearing at her croissants, buttering fresh rolls,
Choke just a bit on orange rind & toast crumbs.
O, let the father depicted in this poem take that
Small warm handful of coins he’ll use to procure her
Last Sunday’s air-freight edition of the New York Times,
&, instead, fork it over, so East Bay bums can pick up
An extra layer of spirits, used flannel or pea coats,
To help ward off ever-encroaching cold fronts & fog.
Lord, let this family man, who the poet has bent silent
Over his favorite sections (Arts, Business, Opinion),
Slouch, in revision, shoulder-to-shoulder with some god-
Forsaken building that serves as our public library.
Now, let him skim his paper next to other poor folk
Rendered “numb” against the pains of terror, the laws
Of hunger. Let that little square of sunlight this exhausted,
Somehow “equitable” young couple likes to call their own
Brand their sleeping newborn (daughter or son?)
With one mean, O, with one wicked little burn…till,
Like me, he just can’t seem to hold, to still his tongue.
Yes, let’s let this former poet laureate who claims
To have fallen in love with his quaint arrangement
Set in one more museum restaurant back-lit by ghosts
Of sculptures, stale cigarette smoke, recall what it’s like
To live without royalties, federal grants, tenure-track
Positions secure as that child’s car seat & trust fund.
Then, if asked, under oath, I might speak in his defense,
Mention how his wife (another quasi-famous poet,
If such a thing exists) once bought a half-dozen of us
“Starving” artists biryani & naan at some Indian market
In the middle of the Midwest. Please, Lord, Almighty
Absent One, let me never forget that gesture, an act
So basic, so human, so kind & so (dark, lukewarm
Coffee mixed with cream) impossibly sweet. Just let
The record state this final fact: we each paid for our own drink.
