Knowing; The Same Old Question; Still No Comfort At All by Jeffrey Zable

KNOWING

During my season in hell I ran into Rimbaud

who I immediately called Rambo— and as he went

for my throat, I blocked his hand and knocked him

to the ground.

Then the scene changed to an unfamiliar city

where I wandered the streets until I finally fell asleep—

dreamed I was being chased by a rhino in a tutu,

knowing that you too had a hand in my demise…

THE SAME OLD QUESTION

Would you really be happy if you could shimmy like Sister Kate?

I know I’d be happy if I could completely forget the past,

and no longer think about the future— with the inevitability of death,

which I’m hoping comes without a painful and prolonged illness.

Other than that, the sun has just broken through the clouds

outside my window and If I can make myself put on some clothes

I might be able to negotiate a walk through Golden Gate Park—

maybe encounter that squirrel again that stopped in front

of me and seemed to want to talk, but then hurried on as if it

needed to get somewhere fast, like a lot of people these days

who’ll I’ll never see again.

STILL NO COMFORT AT ALL

When the water rose over my head I had no choice but to become a fish.

Swimming around, all that I witnessed was fish after fish

consuming one another, making me realize that if I didn’t hide

it would happen to me.

In an abandoned shell I waited and waited until the water receded,

enabling my return to what I was before— which, truth be told,

still gives me no comfort at all.