To Donald Hall's Ear: Philadelphia

Don, not once did you mention or whisper
Of the toothless men, nor their spines creaking
To straighten, the simpering gaite toward
Oh God, the Fear – do you know it, Donald?
The Dunkin' Donuts cup, outstretched fingers

I had another dizzy spell today
Donald, I am but twenty-nine years old
Sometimes there is a spinning in my head
Is that normal for a poet, Mr. Hall?
You are seventy-eight, is that normal?
Is there, what, a millimeter, you think?
I’m told madness has physical symptoms
That one can see, pry open with a penknife

Many medical students live here, Don
They are cute and fluffy, and they’ll cut open
your brain with a penknife when you die
Make a yucky face, as they mention it
Between kisses in-between bucket seats

You should come down some time; we’ll cruise for them

Donald: I am worried no one will hear
My whisper as I yours, gentle clawing
Poet, can you spare me just one reader?
How about an ear of yours for the fire?

No? I will settle for the statue, there
On my desk, you didn’t know it was sold
To me, bound, twisted in the hardcover
Bent over it now, my cloying whisper:
“Sing the sonnet thus: Schizophrenia”
It is your duty, Donald; now, the first line:
“Empty Dunkin' Donuts cup, bone fingers”

Donald’s ear, listen: Philadelphia
A name respired, not spoken, not said
It is cold, though this is July again
And all of middle-management on leave
Out pinching ass in Atlantic City
Dear pavement abandoned, only clock-punchers
schizophrenics and schizophrenia

And schizophrenics and Ralph J. Roberts
Standing long atop his crystal tower
Considering the movie “Transformers”
All of the implications – all of them
Smoking, a withering painful memory
floods back now as it did the night before
Of hair care products on a distant shore

Donald, your neighborhood smells glorious
It reads like university autumn
Velvety young feet, and the trees dieing
Their millionth death – another ring, and verse
Yes, there, whispered softly to me: Siren
The Holy order sounding from your lips

No, it’s wrongheaded, plain evil to ask
A dirty groping for you, sonorous
To my ear, when stupid are my eyebrows
Raised high in their fucking shrug: “what?” nothing
His Duncin' Donuts cup, outstretched, Donald
Empty at the tips of the bone fingers

But where is Raph?… ah yes, the tower still
He benevolently sweeps his ashtray
Now and then a twitch of the wrist is all
And thirty-seven playwrights once frescos in
the hall, now clutching thousand-dollar-bills
Stumbling they land, but the carpet is soft

And me left sitting in a damn Starbucks
Next to a schizophrenic, gentle man
Peers at my pad, no suggestions just yet
The twin clock-punchers peer, cut hard behind
a wooden counter; debtors, born debtors
To the distant wave of a chubby hand

Send your poems to them, Donald, don’t charge
Mark the package thus: “Philadelphia”
A debtor makes a careful verse reader
Rhythm best felt with a foot at the neck
The first line: “Empty Duncin’ Donuts cup”

Donald, breathe with me: Philadelphia
No need to part lips, the name respired
Not spoken, but lost to the poet’s ear
Not said, but held in the lungs, like my granny
did Pall Malls; It will be your greatest poem
The full city luminous in your chest
There, close your eyes, silent to the clawing
Can you hear this, Don: ____________ .