1981, SAN ANTONIO

Tired of poetry talk at the Associated Writing

Programs Conference at the St. Anthony Hotel,

With the toe-gout I woke up with this morning,

I hobble over to the Confederate Park across

Crockett Avenue, not yet green but budding

This late March overcast afternoon. Central

Is a sawed-off obelisk, topped by a Graycoat

(LEST WE FORGET) pointing up either to heaven

or, at least, to somewhere out of the park,

His musket at parade rest, his countenance

Worn away by the elements, 100 and 20 years.

I sit wondering if that Platonic gun

Shot some Union lad in the leg, amputated

Without ether, whom Whitman nursed, brought

Candy to, wrote home for, loved in his vatic way.

And Ginsberg, represented here by a 30 year old

Hippie down the line, slugging Thunderbird

From a brown bagged bottle, derelict except

For his bright red bandanna headband. O,

I do identify with that crippled albino

Pigeon flocking with the English sparrows

Around the crumbs thrown by an old TexMex

Beneath the wheels of a tampioned cannon

Anchored with chains in the sod. I

Have outlived the 60s, the 70s, I

Exist in the 80s. What has changed?

Four black boys drinking LITE the next

Bench over toss their empties straight

Into a barrel drum; the tattoo spells out

ILLITERATE, 100 and 20 years. I feel

Like a helpless Yankee schoolmarm, a rare

Bird plumed with morals and perversions.

But,

But for Whitman, Ginsberg, and the white pigeon,

There are no queers, here, in this park,

Or in Texas. Isn't that right, Bubba.