Phyllis says she makes a good bear.
I don’t really want to trade a quilt
for a teddy bear. Neither

Of those who finally win notice,
of these artists it is said their early work
is either purer, more astounding,

The boy had a group of freckle-faced friends
Who lived nearby. He gave them names, taught them games.
They loved him. He had a sweet nature, sang show tunes

It had taken him long enough but now
He was an American. The years of effort had paid off.
He knew all about the pennant races and the Academy Awards

The happiest moment in a woman’s life
Is when she hears the rum of her lover’s key
In the lock, and pretends to be asleep

She went to his head like a double martini at a bar
Where gangsters gather after a hit. She wanted his baby.
They sat at a corner table, quarreling about money,

No gentle way of breaking the news: you turn on the TV
And see the rocket’s red glare: the capsule explodes,
The astronauts tumble down, and the anchorpeople

The poet sits quietly looking around.
Then galloping, galloping, galloping
out of his old age, into the sweet reply

Late in the century, Chaucer stretches
having just finished with his reckonings
in wool, checking them all against the chits

She feared hell, loved heaven, and the angel’s tooth
that gnaws away the flesh with temperance—
think of this woman, who was half a saint,