poem of the day 06.22.09

a new kind of gentility

sometimes my wife and i
wonder what it would be like
if we sold the books we wrote
and didn’t have to work regular jobs anymore
i guess we’re crazy like that
anyway, we’re walking down esplanade avenue
new orleans
having this debate
hundreds of good miles between us
and brooklyn and our life
and my wife is taking photographs
of ornate balconies
and an old wooden door with a lion head knocker
a few of the places still have
faded orange fema x’s on their wooden paneling
but she says she’d definitely
want a place in new orleans, you know,
if it ever happens for us
a place just off of the quarter
like in marginy or bywater
i tell her i like that idea
just a small place filled with colorful paintings
by local artists
and portraits of jazz musicians
and old maps of the big easy on the wall
in thick, black frames
and a farm, i say, for the summer
somewhere in upstate new york.
surprisingly neither of us mention
staying in brooklyn or anywhere else in the city.
my wife likes this idea too
and she takes my hand as we stroll along
this southern street
wealthy in our minds
famous writers, as big as faulkner with his head
in a bucket of rye
a new kind of gentility that exists just well enough
in the brain
that you think, yeah i can make it another day
thinking thoughts like this
another day ain’t so bad
when confronted with those dreams and fantasies
and a good woman’s hand
like this one resting in the palm of mine right now.