BLAKE ON DRUMS
It’s like having Blake
play on jazz angel cakes
on hand from our friend
we call Chet, the Frisco baker
visiting the rented high rise
ten stories above who arrives
every November 28,
always losing his keys or I.D.
in the South End of Boston
when there are art
festivals all around
like the painter next door
knowing lots
of men and women
who are surrealists
with exhibits 24/7
and hearing music
by Blake on drums
in snow shoes
or raincoats
like the horn player
out of a coma playing sax
fresh from Harlaam
meeting her Dutch uncle
the first time
since the last war,
but its Blake’s birthday
and even though
two wine cups
are broken in fragments
and a bit of stuffing
falls out of the sofa
and the door bell
and telephone
keeps ringing
we will celebrate
our poet’s “Marriage
of Heaven and Hell”
with aplomb.