MYSTERY
WORKING ON A MYSTERY
When Tracey K Smith ( Pulitzer Princeton prof. poet ) sits down
to write ( Vogue April 2018: husband poet literati daughter a
deadringer for Tracey brownstone done in heathers + blues
hues associated with heaven ) does she become distracted by
the neighbour’s yapping dogs? Old one died covered in sores
Couldn’t jump up into SUV anymore Carried like the Christ
up+down the stairs
I called police when barking led to meandering thoughts of murdering
husband or her or her demure mother She doesn’t speak to us (!)
apparently In tight white jeans she glares As every dimple calls out
for more Or is Tracey distracted by feeling so good that anything is
possible? Probably People +especially poets like Tracey are
particularly dear to those of us who have only wasted a year or 2
______
She poured doubles like an angel, right up to the lip of a cocktail glass,
no measuring. You had to go down on them like a hummingbird over a
blossom. Birth should have felt like that. ( ..not written by Tracey K Smith..)
Spring 2018
songanddancegirl 