The World Is Too
I have the books to prove
I am a serious history buff.
Discovering my mother's ancestors
were Russian Jews surprised me
and you know how I loved my mother.
I can think of only two Hank Williams songs
off the top of my head, but I definitely remember
the name of his hometown
unless I am actually driving through south Alabama.
Frivolous were the romantics and shallow Wordsworth,
but I can't recall the titles to any of his poems
except the world is too much with us.
So what if I see great Proteus rise from the sea
or hear old Triton on the horn with those
whose names are never called
when choosing sides for basketball?
I am making coffee mixed with epic butter,
which is not a thing people did
in my father's time.
I want to be a man who says
It is not that I am unmoved. Great God! No.
It is still tomorrow the waking up,
if given a new creed I might have sight
to make me less forlorn, but that is not the problem.
The difficulty in moving
the piano way down the wave
is not its weight, nor even the time of mistakes.
It's that the thing is too big
and will not fit through my heart.