Kindness

I think of you, hit-and-run driver,
killing my father’s cousin in a Brooklyn
crosswalk, someone who had recently
received his father’s fortune made off,
in part, from a piece of Rock Island,

and which to my father a portion
of this grace flowed down so that
in his waning years, he and my mother
were saved from slumlords, safety pins,
and Campbell soup cans, and we children
from having to skim off our savings
to support them.

So, whatever cell you sit in, sorry man,
I am sorry you ruined your family’s life,
but there is a family in the heart of Wisconsin
to whom you have been very kind.

Dear WebEx

My 45th day without cats,
all their owners on lockdown,
their tickets for Italian river cruises
and the Caribbean in shreds,
my plans to visit their felines and stroke
whiskered cheeks, rub chins
guillotined.
The woman on my screen

slings Pookie to her shoulder
as we chat, and in ecstasy
he rotates his heft till he’s belly-up,
squeezing his nose into the folds of her neck,
stretching his toes to the ceiling.
I stare, gape, lap up his rapture
like milk from a saucer.

This is the best it gets.
Thank you, WebEx.

The Woman Who’s Dating
My Daughter’s Boyfriend

arrives to take him out to brunch.
She wears denim in layers, streaks
her hair purple, loops silver
in both ears. She hugs my daughter

in hello and I think of cartons made
from Styrofoam, of fish sliced open
leaking roe, plush lawns that cushion
Easter baskets as in
Don’t put all your eggs—
Is that what this is?

My daughter claims love should
have no constraints, as she clears
dirty dishes from our breakfast table,
says what they have together
will last even longer because it’s an
only-if-i-want-to arrangement
where nothing is done out of obligation,
and when romance doffs its hat,
they are free to audition.
They’ll outfox that typical break-up syndrome
because the word cheat is not crouched
behind their teeth.

The woman who’s dating my
daughter’s boyfriend has feathers
tied to the laces of her boots,
and trundles off with him down
the long stairs to the street.
The song of their joshing
and happy chatter
makes them sound like children
the minute school lets out.