Kindest Regards

Selecting a Reader First, I would have her be beautiful,and walking carefully up on my poetryat the loneliest moment of an afternoon,her hair still damp at the neckfrom washing it, She should be wearinga raincoat, an old one, dirtyfrom not having money enough for the cleaners.She will take out her glasses, and therein the bookstore, she will thumbover my poems, then put the book backup on its shelf. She will say to herself,"For that kind of money, I can getmy raincoat cleaned." And she will.The Widow Lester I was too old to be married,but nobody told me,I guess they didn't care enough.How it had hurt, though, catching bouquetsall those years!Then I met Ivan, and kept himand never knew love.How his feet stunk in the bed sheets!I could have told him to wash,but I wanted to hold that stink against him.The day he dropped dead in the field.I was watching.I was hanging up sheets in the yard,and I finished.In the Basement of the Goodwill Store In musty light, in the thin brown airof damp carpet, doll heads and rust,beneath long rows of sharp footfallslike nails in a lid, an old man standstrying on glasses, lifting each pairfrom the box like a glittering fishand holding it up to the lightof a dirty bulb. Near him. a heapof enameled pans as white as skullslooms in the catacomb shadows,and old toilets with dry red throatscough up bouquets of curtain rods. You've seen him somewhere before.He's wearing the green leisure suityou threw out with the garbage,and the Christmas tie you hated,and the ventilated wingtip shoesyou found in your father's closetand wore as a joke. And the glassesthat finally fit him, through which he looks to see you looking back—two mirrors that flash and dance—are those through which one dayyou too will look down over the years,when you have grown old and thinand no longer particular,and the things you once thoughtyou were rid of foreverhave taken you back in their arms.Daddy Longlegs Here, on fine long legs springy as steel,a life rides, sealed in a small brown pillthat skims along over the basement floorwrapped up in a simple obsession.Eight legs reach out like the master ribsof a web in which some thought is caughtdead center in its own small world,a thought so far from the touch of thingsthat we can only guess at it. If mine,it would be the secret dreamof walking along across the floor of my lifewith an easy grace, and with love enoughto live on at the center of myself.The Urine Specimen In the clinic, a sun-bleached shell of stoneon the shore of the city, you enterthe last small chamber, a little closet chastened with pearl—cool, white, and glistening—and over the chilly well of the toiletyou trickle your precious sum in a cup.It's as simple as that. But the heatof this gold your body's melted and poured outinto a form begins to enthrall you,warming your hand with your flesh's feversin a terrible way. It's like holdingan organ—spleen or fatty pancreas,a lobe from your foamy brain still steamingwith worry. You know that just outsidea nurse is waiting to cool it into a geland slice it onto a microscope slidefor the doctor, who in it will read your future,wringing his hands. You lift the chalice and toastthe long life of your friend there in the mirror,who wanly smiles, but does not drink to you. EpigraphThe quarry road tumbles toward meout of the early morning darkness,lustrous with frost, an unrolled boltof softly glowing fabric, interwovenwith tiny glass beads on silver thread,the cloth spilled out and then lovinglysmoothed by my father's handas he stands behind his wooden counter(dark as these fields) at Tilden's Storeso many years ago. "Here," he says smiling,"you can make something special with this."February 16 An early morning fog. In fair weather, the shy past keeps its distance.Old loves, old regrets, old humiliationslook on from afar. They stand back under the trees.No one would think to look for them there. But in fog they come closer. You can feel themthere by the road as you slowly walk past.Still as fence posts they wait, dark and reproachful,each stepping forward in turn.March 2 Patchy clouds and windy. All morningour house has been flashing in and out of shadelike a signal, and far across the waves of grassa neighbor's house has answered,offering help. If I have to abandon this life,they tell me they'll pull me acrossin a leather harnessclipped to the telephone line.Walking on Tiptoe Long ago we quit lifting our heelslike the others—horse, dog, and tiger—though we thrill to their speedas they flee. Even the mousebearing the great weight of a nuggetof dog food is enviably graceful.There is little spring to our walk,we are so burdened with responsibility,all of the disciplinary actionsthat have fallen to us, the punishments,the killings, and all with our feetbound stiff in the skins of the conquered.But sometimes, in the early hours,we can feel what it must have been liketo be one of them, up on our toes,stealing past doors where others are sleeping,and suddenly able to see in the dark.