On the Continent

 

There is, it turns out, a Europe of the mind

Where all the memories from all your visits go

To drink their cappuccinos in the shade

Of German French Italian Spanish trees,

 

And to recline, half-drunk, below the winking stars

Of Paris, and Milan, and even Bruges,

Sun-sated, having seen their fill

Of bikes, cathedrals, and big-bellied men,

 

Content to dream their European dreams 

That harken back and back, down endless years –

Because everything has happened a million times here,

And will probably happen again,

 

And it was no great bother, then or now;

Nothing to miss a cigarette for;

Nothing worth giving up the splashing of the fountain,

The ankle of a girl, or the swaddling night.

Who You're Kidding

 

When someone asks you

“Who do you think you’re kidding?”

The answer is always:

Myself, myself, myself.

Itinerary

 

Go wash your blackberry hands
In the iceberg water
Before the bauble sun
Kisses the trees.

Everything is done.
There will be no tomorrow.
But this night is endless
Like the million murmuring stars.

Champion

 

Occasionally a stranger 

Will come up to me 

And tell me how much 

My father meant to them.

 

The ones who met him 

Were amazed by his kindness,

His utter lack of swagger -

The champion with the humble smile.

 

I try to explain

That was just how he was.

It never would have occurred to him 

To behave any differently.

 

There was nothing performative 

About his humility. 

He felt in his bones 

That everyone is a champion.

 

He was, on every level, 

The genuine article:

Man, athlete, thinker,

And, above all, human being.

 

It may sound like hero worship -

Like boyish idolatry -

But not to those who knew him. 

They nod, and they understand.

 

Sometimes it almost seems 

Like they’re expecting me to argue. 

Your father was a great man, they say,

And I think: You don’t know the half of it.