Two Little Poems


I know the robed wide woman dark on neighbor balcony –
the one who looks up at nothing then down at the pub –
laughs when the handrail is too fast for the escalator
when she finds herself, after a flight, slightly leaning.


Some things are made to take heat, this tea pot for example
Made not to warp or melt but to hold water over fire.
Does she hate, I wonder, to whistle? Or worse-
Will she whistle herself quiet?