"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



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

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