Poems by the author

Seven Steeples

I stood on the railroad tracks,

   stared south at the gray mountains,

And started walking,

   carefully avoiding the broken bottles

   and tangled weeds.

I picked up a rhythm when I figured out that

   one long stride equals two railroad ties.

After a while, I grew tired,

   so I turned around

   and started walking back.

I counted seven steeples.

Parts of red brick factories peeked over row houses,

   and around the corners of buildings,

   and down from wooded hills,

   and from across the river.

Big houses were stacked on cliffs,

   and it seemed a miracle

   that they hadn’t tumbled end over end

   into a pile of lifeless sticks.

Elderly Housing

I had my chance...when I was nineteen.

Earl wanted to go to California

   when we got married,

   but I wasn’t sure,

   so we didn’t.

He wound up at Sprague’s,

   but he died before he could retire.

And now I live in the school

   I used to walk to every morning.

They call it elderly housing.

My window looks west on Route 2,

   and when I stare at the New York mountains,

   I wonder what would’ve happened

   if I had listened to Earl.

And so we eat at the dining hall every day

   and talk about the grandchildren

   and that nice young priest at St. Francis.