by G. H. Smith

The time has come to put away childish things.
You laugh, but when were we ever punctual?
Look, the ferry is engaged
in foreplay with the dock.
In light of all this rain,
the past is bankrupt,

which might be a plus.
I try to see myself in a room
surrounded by sticks of furniture.
That one’s a far cry
from Louis Quatorze;
the ottoman has lost its empire.

I miss above all the dogs,
whose antics drove me to distraction,
the way they’d stub their snouts
against the door, demanding to be let out,
then mere minutes later,
wanting in again.

by Kevin Sweeney

I blame myself. My overwrought wise–guy persona
can’t resist a good joke, so when a new family buys
the big house on Broadway (supposedly haunted)
I notice that the wife /mother looks like the girl who
killed ex–NFL QB Steve McNair. Not as young
or glamorous but surely not as unstable; her two
pre–teen boys look like her with dark hair and eyes.
The father is tall and graying but fit and happy.

So I start referring to them as “The McNairs” when I
see the boys walk their small dog to the beach or the
parents set camping chairs on the sand, enjoying the
short span of Maine summer. Work is being done
on the house. Plants hang on the porch. It’s the kind of
house I’d once aspired to before a bad first marriage
then a good second with someone who understands loss.

But this year I see Mr. McNair at the beach with another
woman. I see him out walking, and it’s a different other
woman. That day in town he can’t get his Saab started
I walk over with jumper cables, mention I used to own
Saabs too. The woman in the passenger seat is pretty.
I want to ask, “What’s going on? Where’s your wife?
What about the kids?” The boys seem like teenagers

in that acoustic, minor chord way of melancholy and rue.
I see one reach the crest of a hill near their home with
his father. Both look stricken. I want to pull over and
offer something. A ride? Assurance she’ll be back?
The kids can still see her despite the divorce. I’ve
been through that; it can be okay. Unless she’s dead,

which is why Mr. McNair looks sad too. It’s my fault.
I shouldn’t make jokes. Then last week I drive by the
house and Mr. McNair is smiling, as are both boys.

They’re on the porch facing a dark–haired woman,
a late model car parked at the curb. It looks like her.

On the way home I see the porch is empty and the
dark–haired woman gone. Maybe reconciliation is
in progress? Maybe she’s getting a Ph.D. in something
esoteric and will be home soon. But next day
Mr. McNair and another other woman (is this the 4th?)
sit on the porch in Adirondacks. I’m wounded and
bereft. I thought Mom was coming home. The torn
garment mended. Kevin Sweeney, wiseass cynic &
self–styled suburban satirist off the hook, but Dad’s
laughing with a stranger in the middle of a beautiful day.
What the fuck; doesn’t this guy ever work?

by Kevin Sweeney

Pedagogical Metaphysical Poetical Blues on Wednesday
After the Latest Snowstorm

The girl who says she has written two books is falling
asleep in the back of the room as I read a poem
by a Chasidic Jew about the problem of evil. Two
sisters who say they weren’t able to get this book
on their Kindle keep jabbering and gesturing while
I read a poem about life on a Russian shtetel.
When I tell the joke about the difference
between a philosopher and a theologian being
that the philosopher is a blind person looking
for a black cat in a dark room and the theologian
finds the cat, another student says it seems more
likely the theologian would simply bring his own cat.
When I mention two Karamazov brothers debating
God, it’s like admitting I still use a flip phone, even
less relevant than my mention of Jerry Seinfeld
stealing a loaf of marble rye from an old lady while
back in the shtetel the 15–year–old bean merchant’s
daughter cooks lentil soup for her 17–year–old husband
who is returning home clutching a loaf of dark bread.
The title of this poem is “Already I Feel Like An Old Man.”
Meanwhile, in the front of the room, the pleasant girl
with 60 percent hearing loss does hear the theologian
joke but says, “I don’t get it.”

by Kevin Sweeney

I need a new belt.
The old one is fraying at the edges
though it doesn’t matter since I’m too fat
and usually don’t tuck in my shirts.
I need new undershirts and new underwear,
more new socks.

I am excited about this.
I plan on visiting Marshall’s, maybe Target.
I don’t want to spend much, but shopping
for these things means I’m not dead or
dying in some acute way. It’s like replacing
the rusted screen door, nailing down loose
boards on the porch, putting more tissues
and toilet paper in the bathroom, taking
an afternoon walk.

Maintenance is a beautiful thing; it’s next
to cleanliness in the competition for Godliness.
I don’t want to worry about BIG things.
I worried about them last week. With that
new belt and more mid–day walks — and
maybe an occasional swim at the rec center —
I could tuck my shirts in. I dream

of walking about the neighborhood or
the campus of the college where I teach, my
shirt tucked in and wind not ruffling my
vanishing hair (I wear a hat). I’d be happier
than the people with face paint and jerseys
at last night’s football game on national TV,
happier than the culturally–enslaved youths
wearing t–shirts & shorts in November.

Aristotle said young men could become
mathematicians but never know the joy
of finding a new belt at Marshall’s and
some of those tank–top undershirts (2XL)
so when someone asks how I am I can simply
reply, “I have a new belt.”