We're going to visit my family in Denver for the next few days, and on that topic, here's another poem by Philip Levine from a recent New Yorker (I found it, Brian!). I'm sure this violates a copyright or two, but I like to think that posting poetry is like sharing music files, and that if you like them maybe you'll go buy one of the poet's books and we can call it even. Home for the Holidays
Does anyone give a shit? Not
I, said the little brown mouse.
And so to bed, said Mother,
but no one was listening.
Praise the Lord, said the radio,
the radio said Praise the Lord
again, and the television
turned its back on the room.
Turnips for wisdom, eggplant
for beauty, parsnips for ease,
cabbage for size, a raw egg
for the hair, a slice of ham
to seize the hips, for the nose
foxglove and salt, for grace
ice-cold water poured from
way high up to way down low.
Everyone sits at the big table
in the dark. The empty plates
moon, the silverware stars,
the napkins scrub their hands.
I'm home, says the front door.
The windows are deep in thought,
the roof has taken off its hat.
Nothing to do, chants the toilet.