I have two poems in this anthology, which is No. 1 on Amazon for men’s anthologies:


Jean tells how she’d go to pubs and meet
American soldiers—she’d sing the latest songs—
White Cliffs of Dover, Berkeley Square—
teenager in London in the war years, time
of privation, of jokes in the bomb shelter.
She tells us in the fading light,
surrounded by wings of the building.

Every night, after feeding all her younger
brothers and sisters (mother dead, her father
an alcoholic), out she’d go—it was a wonderful time—
“Sing us another one, Jeannie!”—
as well as a terrible time—“The boy you danced with
could be dead the next week,”
she says.

We hear a siren beyond the garden wall—
a resident being rushed to the hospital.
An American married Jean, brought her
to Massachusetts; when he beat her, she had
to leave him. A nanny in Boston, raising
other women’s children—when the husband died,
her sons began to visit her.

Tears in her eyes as we speak—
the new director of the residents’ choir
won’t let Jean sing solos, so she’s quit the choir.
“My heart isn’t in it anymore. They all like
my songs—I know the words of all the old songs—
but she doesn’t want me to sing them.”

Sing for us, I ask, sing White Cliffs of Dover.
“Here?” she asks. “Here and now?” Please, I say,
and she sings—her light, clear soprano reminding us
of bright nights when life was waiting
for everyone young to bite huge chunks
and down them with beer
before the sirens wailed.


A strange, somehow dangerous beatnik place—
some of the customers were barefoot—the waitress
with her long, straight hair was dressed in black.
The drinks were exotic—bitter espresso,
Constant Comment tea. We were 17.

Singers in rubber sandals pretended to be hillbillies—
since this was Boston, they sang of a “broken haht.”
Then a woman sat at the mike with her guitar
and sang songs from Vanguard albums:

The water is wide, I cannot cross over

and we held hands, poised at the edge of a bay.

And neither have I wings to fly

We breathed her fingers’ rhythm on the strings.

Give us a boat that will carry two
And both shall row, my love and I

Would anyone ever love me that much?
Why not us? Why not us, sitting in the smoky light
of a beatnik coffee house? Along the broad shore
the water would shine forever.

And both shall row, my love and I


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