The Root

He didn’t know
from whom
his father
or mother came.
He didn’t know
who to ask.
Archaeology for him
was genealogy
apparently.
That was a laugh.

Upstairs
Ripley & Company
sat at a table
circular
with Bobby
facing them.
They gassed
about his work.
They seemed
intrigued.

You always know
these men
without white coats
for their probing
curiosity.
They seemed pleased
they knew a kid
from the lowlands
who could write.
He hid his clarinet,

he was dreaming
awake, playing
with Stan Getz–
Bossa Nova
for Reeds,
they’d call themselves,
Sanchez on drums–
Astrud Gilberto
brimming with song.

Ripley mentioned
Roethke:
Do you know him?
Bobby wished Cathleen
were here.
She could tell him
all the Roethke
he wished.
Roethke said
she had pulchritude.

No, Bobby said,
haven’t met.
He does know
his first
teacher was
a protégé
of Roethke
in Pennsylvania,
this curious line
of succession,

perhaps . . .
Ripley & Company
sat around
listening,
maybe even dreaming.
What if
he could hypnotize
shrinks
with origin
stories . . .

Away from them
he wrote
about them.
They wanted
to be magicians.
Who were
their Merlins?
Draining the Zuyder Zee
was Freud’s
wish-fulfillment.

(27 February 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander