97poems/jeffers

She made all his clothes
convinced him to tuck his pants
into his boots, to be more poetic,
perhaps.
He paced when he wrote
so when he stopped pacing
she pounded the ceiling
with the broom
She pounded on the ceiling
when he stopped pacing upstairs
to make him write
they got a map
of round towers
he built her one
and its wall
they wrote
bien faire laissez dire
do well and let them talk.
I have sat in Jeffers’ chair
and wondered there
what would he think
of that stuffed hawk
above the desk.

6/10/97