Bob Hicok
Weighty (sigh) matters
Black Rock with Blue Sky and White Clouds, Georgia O’Keefe (1972)
My favorite cloud ever
looked like Lincoln
picking his nose, said
one blade of grass to another.
Whitman wrote a whole book about us,
said one American to another.
There’s a lot of chatter
in this poem so far
but not enough wrestling
with the concept of the soul.
But is it a concept
or a paperweight,
and does something
of our lives persist,
other than the desire
to go on and on
wondering why we’re here,
and where is the emergency
apple pie,
since these questions
can’t possibly be answered
on an empty stomach.
