All Art is Quite Useless

I ought to give my poems legs,
send them round the house at night
to kick up and swallow dust.

In the morning, when they lie
engorged and exhausted at the bottom of the stairs,
I’ll shake them out on the balcony,
stretch their letters in the wind.

For others I’ll pen a pair of hands,
shoo them out into the neighborhood.

A few will stand and point at the burning red
of the Japanese Maple leaves at the corner
of Beacon Street and Warwick Road.

Some will tug at the heels of pedestrians
until they turn and catch the last breath of a sunset.

One will skip around convenience stores
and warehouse floors
tickling everything it can get its tiny, rotund
fingers on.

For a few poems I’ll craft wings
out of stamps and glossy photo paper,
send them down the Masspike
to Mother.

They’ll flutter through the window,
perch in the oak ceiling beams
beside the dried azaleas and rusted washboard
to whisper in her ear as she scrubs
cereal bowls in the sink;

He’s okay. Eating well, not too sad.
He’ll get a job, toughen up. He’s okay

or

Your father is happy now, in heaven.
Drinking a whiskey on the rocks
(it’s allowed). Your mother will be there soon.
She knows how much you love her.
You’ve done everything you can

Better yet, the poem will land
in her twisted brown hair
while she sleeps, to murmur;

It’s okay not to know, to be scared, to be sad.

It’s okay to be sad

In the morning
she’ll stretch and scratch her elbow,
find the folded piece of paper
on her pillow, tuck it into her top
drawer and smile.

All these other poems
just sit around my room,
yawning on the radiator
or drinking in the closet.
They ruminate on death
and spurn the names of ex-lovers,
but are really all quite useless.