Cosy Apologia

by Rita Dove

For Fred

I could pick anything and think of you—

This lamp, the wind-still rain, the glossy blue

My pen exudes, drying matte, upon the page.

I could choose any hero, any cause or age

And, sure as shooting arrows to the heart,

Astride a dappled mare, legs braced as far apart

As standing in silver stirrups will allow—

There you'll be, with furrowed brow

And chain mail glinting, to set me free:

One eye smiling, the other firm upon the enemy.

This post-postmodern age is all business: compact disks

And faxes, a do-it-now-and-take-no-risks

Event. Today a hurricane is nudging up the coast,

Oddly male: Big Bad Floyd, who brings a host

Of daydreams: awkward reminiscences

Of teenage crushes on worthless boys

Whose only talent was to kiss you senseless.

They all had sissy names—Marcel, Percy, Dewey;

Were thin as licorice and as chewy,

Sweet with a dark and hollow center. Floyd's

Cussing up a storm. You're bunkered in your

Aerie, I'm perched in mine

(Twin desks, computers, hardwood floors):

We're content, but fall short of the Divine.

Still, it's embarrassing, this happiness—

Who's satisfied simply with what's good for us,

When has the ordinary ever been news?

And yet, because nothing else will do

To keep me from melancholy (call it blues),

I fill this stolen time with you.