I am a crooked man who lives inside
a crooked head, alone in a windowless room.
No gardener, I was given a plant which just sat.
I ignored the pot there on the stand next to the bed.
Then one night, turning off the lamp, it caught my eye.
Parched tan leaves, bent down scrawny, cellulose stems
begged for water, which I did, frowning, a bit at a time.
After nursing the shrub an hour or so,
she began to revive, just like that
lifting her bright head straight up toward me.
We sat lightly, she swell and green, me fresh and smiling.
A family of sorts, no longer thirsty, began to flower.
Come closer, my love, don't be shy, it's all right.
Let them go, all these months our not speaking.
Sure, we've had ups and downs; yes,
your borrowed words turned me into a prophet.
I became New Orleans voice, their Sybil,
a pseudo-Rumi to those in need,
a certifiable public TV guru — while you,
the muse I sucked dry thieving your spirit,
profited not at all.
Times have changed, dear one; the wheel turned;
Katrina's taken back what you inspired.
My manuscripts, diskettes and flashdrive
detritus rot in the hurricane's muck
flashfloods ripped from our bungalow.
Even notebooks and computer hoisted high
on shelf tops that last minute before fleeing
floated as I was rowed away.
(Did you see the Picayune's photo
of your boom box near the ceiling?)
Anything left? Not much.
Let's see what that fancy Miami firm
can do with the hard drive —
extorting a king's ransom I don't have
on the off chance of recovering random verses.
So please come back, help clean up
this god-awful mess: our once sweet home
now stinks like a Bogalusa cow patch.
Work with me to salvage us, or I'll give up,
gut the place, move on. Ghost town inside-out,
my moldy core prays for your return.
Don't walk away, say something ...
just don't be a Sphinx ripping my innards
‘cause I can't solve some riddle.
Gerard Sarnat is a seeker and Jewbu, married forty years/father of three/grandfather, physician to the disenfranchised, past CEO and Stanford professor, and virginal poet at the tender age of sixty-two. Gerry has recently been published or is forthcoming in numerous literary journals. "Just Like the Jones'," about his experience caring for Jonestown survivors, was solicited by JonestownAnnual Report and will appear later this year. He is currently working on an epic prose poem,The Homeless Chronicles. He has been accepted into a four person writers' cooperative by The California Institute of Arts and Letters. Pessoa Press plans to publish his first book.