By Matthew Goodman

I

Spring screams in muted roars
the slow, choreographed palms
dance to the back-beat
of traffic horns.
The buses are late,
taxi cabs, impatient,
and the scooters,
off-key.

II

I'm listening to Tucker,
to opera,
on a high speed train
from one Asian city
to another.
I think it's from '56.

III

A poet must be
either vain
or uncreative
to title poems with numerals.
I call it, "My Third."

IV

Prayers and poems read the same.
Both exalt and denounce,
damn and praise.
Yet only some sing
fullest
beneath
a choral breath.

V

Does God exist
more so in a grain of wheat
or in a tenement?
I'd rather roll about in one,
and pray for the other.

VI

'Ain't it hard
to love one
that never did
love you?'

Stay with me,
stranger.
Have a hot meal,
a bath, fresh
linens.
I'll sleep with the hens
instead.
You've paid with your song.