Billy Collins Poems
|42.||I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice"||1/13/2003|
|43.||I Go Back To The House For A Book||1/13/2003|
|44.||Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes||1/7/2004|
|47.||I Ask You||1/13/2003|
|48.||On Turning Ten||1/13/2003|
|50.||Introduction To Poetry||1/13/2003|
|51.||Another Reason Why I Don'T Keep A Gun In The House||1/13/2003|
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping ...
The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense
that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup
drawings on the wall above a bench of tools.
Your ears are ringing with the sound of
the mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe,
and as you look closer you notice that this month's
is not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearing
a straw hat and very short blue shorts,
her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts.