So it’s spring again
my tree is working
up to it, anxious buds
I would rather not
begin again but here
we go, the sap is running
invitations in my inbox
to birthday parties
I would rather not
make small talk
in the countryside
we are simple
and have flowers
If I just have to
let me go to the city
get sick on a Belon oyster
near the East River
give ferry directions to
an Australian businessman
who has time to sight see
in the rain
At the Poetry Project
I made my friend cry
He had to choose
between one or the other
love and work and
chose work. I’m sorry
friend, I chose love
out in fucking nowhere
As if I knew where to turn
but I’d rather live in
New York City until I die
Sure sure sure,
green and the sun again
and soon we’ll hear
everything through
the air conditioner
For employment
I have bathed horses
chased a mule, washed
windows, painted
chips on cars, baked bread
taught children how
to behave
Dreaming doesn’t help
Eight poems by
Ted Greenwald
in The Paris Review
two years before
I was born
[Italicized text is from Greenwald’s poems “How Is It,” “Staring Doesn’t Help,” and “Miami”]
-Morgan English