POEM FOR MARTY GOLDSTEIN

(Oct. 14, 1949 - Jan 15, 1983)

A woodpecker plucks seeds 

from a late fig in January. 

Bubbles rise as my hand 

traces along the surface of the tub. 

In another town, my friend Marty 

sits up in the hospital bed, 

stares wildly out, and vomits blood. 

What did he see before that final leap? 

A girl tucked baby mice in the fingers of a glove 

and put them in a bureau drawer for safekeeping.

Who forgot they were there and what fingers 

crushed the powdery remains of mice 

as she fitted the gloves to her fingertips? 

Was this a memory of home, 

or an old dream?

1983, no date, found in my 1983 Napa Poetry Conference journal