2 Poems Scott Keeney
In 1973, I couldn’t leave
for France. I simply
wasn’t born yet. The clouds
complicate my plans
to clean the gutters today.
Do I exaggerate my person?
I studied Augustine and arrived
back home with attention
deficit disorder. The Aztec sun
beats the meteorological odds.
I clap. Echoes in caves.
My daughter, when she stands
in 1973, knows me
as poetry—compost of history.
I’m sick, Jack, with an infection centered
between my French-Canadian red ears
and spreading like word troubles through
the dank avenues of my brain. Why,
in these green sky hours, do I always
turn to you? You were not the best poet,
not even my favorite. Sometimes I hunt
through your books looking for just
one good page to recommend my one
good honey friend. But when I’m gone
off the path—when dust be my eyes—
I pick up you and find perfection simple
where other times I found no reason
to read, no skill, no art, no nothing.