Tone Deaf At U. Of Michigan Poem by Bernard Henrie

The bees in the faculty housing quadrangle
are yellow with pollen and can’t fly straight.

I’m no better with Wild Turkey in a cup;

thorax raw with Chesterfields, jittery cat
and unpaid bills scattered on a bureau,
the wife's suitcase packed, the China
boxed and put away.

I take the gleaming Maserati for a night drive
along blackened parks and house shells,
the grim city pressed into printer ink
and rolled out flat.

I am miles from saying poems for you;
pens and paper fill the pockets
of my cowboy shirt. I tape apologies
to the mirror, unfinished letters
spill over my desk; unopened envelopes
and debts of a Sun King.

The housing quadrangle grows quiet,
the bees asleep somewhere.
The alcohol wears off.

I wanted half the night with you
and more, I wanted to shine my bones
for you, move you to the shaded side
of the house, locate your dented pillow
still scented with your hair, I wanted
to fall asleep talking and remember
everything in the morning.

I am a school boy who cannot think
what to write in my school book.

I will teach dead sober next term,
burn candles in my nose and juggle
onions for an audience of fish.