can’t feel the rain on their face any morecan’t go to warI pass the stonesone by one in the storm
and when the rain has stopppedthere’s no need to warmin the sunwhat’s done is done
but the rows are alivewith memories. This onetraveled here, this one thereone breathed his lastin Normandy air
whether it’s spring, or rosesdoesn’t mean a thingnone of them is aloneonly me, watching wateron the face of a stone
Larry Keegan

it’s Saturday night and all is wellnobody’s going to heavenand nobody’s going to hell
there’s road rage on the highway600 waiting on death rowfor some the spring is comingfor others – I don’t know
there’s a war that’s killed ten thousandit started because no one said nosome hope it will turn out wellthere were lies, and a command to go
it’s Saturday – people head to churchon Sunday they will say their prayerssteeples make good cell phone antennasmillions bow their headsbut there may be no one upstairs
Larry Keegan

in a two ton S-U-V

I’ve got to teach her

what the accelerator’s for

she don’t know how to spell it

she don’t know how to use it

honey – it’s a gas pedal!

you got to push it to the floor

just a ninety pound beauty

in a two ton S-U-V

it’s only a quart of milk

she’s goin’ to the store

so what’s that 300 horsepower for?

sittin’ twelve feet above the road

like riding a tank

in Afghanistan

but she can do it

if anybody can

she’s a ninety pound beauty

in a two ton S-U-V

Larry Keegan

we are between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
as high noon approaches

Corelli is playing on station 102.5
I taste cashews, almonds, walnuts
and some nuts I cannot name

a sip of Shiraz – ah!
a nibble of Vermont cheddar
and (if you don’t like this
you don’t like my poem)
a chomp of sweet gherkin pickle

we are in between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
I am seventy-four
I am happy!
It is high noon!

Somewhat after the holidays
when a white layer of snow
covers the ground, winter
begins for me. I am alone now.
Sitting around the fireplace was fine.
Feasting at Yule tables, chatting
over bourbon with relatives
down from Barrington was nice.
But now winter comes, wild and white.
We are alone again. In city streets,
the wild wind eddying through every
alleyway, on hillsides, sculptured
with blown snow, men
will live their lives for real,
now facing time as it first
dawned. January and
February will drive in
like thundering herds.

when Maxwell barked
his mistress scolded him
Dachshund type – miniature
he growled on June’s last day
Maxwell so unkind to bark at
the stranger passing by

Maxwell’s mistress in such way
favoring the stranger
no bark, no bite. the friendly
flowers of June will hum a tune
neither bark, neither bite
Maxwell sit. Maxwell be kind.

If this was another world -
if things were different -
she’s just about my age

I walk back to the monastery
light snow is falling
there is a clothesline
with panties and a bra

the cups are filling up with snow
it bothers me, but the lady
who owns them does not
seem to care

it is not my calling
to stroke the convex of a breast
but to feel the concave
of the cups – to empty
them of snow -

a lady’s panties – no
they would never fit a man -

these thoughts are out of line
perhaps I will see the Master
of Novices, confess – just in case -

ask the Blessed Virgin for help
and say a rosary.

you played softball Sunday morning
de-ox-y-rib-o-nu-cle-ic acid
(after all that, I’m not an acid but a salt)
like an old lady’s beads thrown in a purse
I live in a dark nucleus
you walk in the sun around Horn Pond

I am polymerase and replicate the ribbon of life
I am an enzyme that reads a section of the code
you smile and talk with a fisherman

I am a protein rolled up from the blueprint
in a segment of the string
I know who you are
you look up and see the morning clouds

the cytoplasm is my home.
I am a membrane
I manufacture ribosomes
that read the orders
and give commands
you read your book
a new thought enters your mind

sugars and carbohydrates, that’s
all we are, like a chain of crystal
six feet long, wrapped in a coil
we hold the numbers
now you are driving your car

I am a million years old
only carbon oxygen and hydrogen
and elements of nitrogen in the plan
we were there when it all began
you scratch your head
you think you’ll write a poem