But back nonetheless. The last night in London I crawled through London’s pubs with my shipping manager and luckily found a late night curry before heading back to the hotel. I slept it off on the plane, as one does. We were pleased when women of indeterminate accents, as well as homeless people, would find out we were American and say “we love you!” That should be “we love you now.” Either way, thanks, Obama!

In two days, I’m off to the West Chester poetry party/conference/confabulation, where I’ll be delivering two poetry readings and interviewing Donald Hall before a live audience. For now, let’s get back into the E-Verse swing of things. Here’s a poem by Joshua Beckman.

Untitled Poem [Unslide the door]
by Joshua Beckman

Unslide the door,
uncap the lazy little coffee cup.
The pasty people must be part of the dinner.
And a city turns its incapacity in,
foolish city. She was naked
and her halo all crushed against
the pillow while she slept, but I
didn’t care. Wake and totter.
Place a hand over your mouth,
a hand over another.
A killing pain, a bag all organized,
an inch of skin along your leg.
It’s like they kept making babies
and stopped making baby whistles.
Doable, yes, but here they
teach us something different.
It’s a battery. It’s a garden.
The glass box in which the lettuce grew
was broken by nasty raccoons
and we turned the other cheek.
The sun does rise and melt the frost,
the frost in little drops does fill
the empty lettuce, and in this way
the world is truly nourished.
No incredible silence, no
intangible calorie, just
bad raccoon in a good world.
Just coverless table and
silent drape awaiting breakfast.
Imagine how mean people
can be in dreams, and how
kind sleeping seems later.