Emerson would accuse me of blindness
that I am unable to turn coffee rings
into a concentric metaphor for
a day spent writing this.
My wife hollers her Corso warnings,
and she is right that I
should not get caught up
in these serious engagements —
there are no milkmen any longer
and there never was any penguin dust.
I’ve been in gloomy New England
more than half my life now,
and have never had Frost slip
accidentally through my pen –
though I can’t help look at bent
birches without thinking of him.
For now it’s enough to know
that I lived in Amherst and walked
past Emily’s home understanding what she meant
about that fucking feathered thing.
© 2008 henry toromoreno