Scoop: Poetry Course

1.
Coming back from Port Townsend
with a bag of collards and
one leek like a guitar neck,
my dinner on the ferry deck
is carrot washed against my sleeve,
and lights of Kitsap houses leave
land behind the water’s sheath
and all that seafood underneath.

The city, meanwhile, hungers up.
I return, compliant, corrupt,
to pour the Milk Fund gallons forth,
under great migrations north,
belly lusty, raw for love,
with all that poultry up above.


2.
On Spaghetti Wednesdays at
the 65th Street bar Tin Hat,
although the pasta may be watery,
meatballs too maraudery,
the Kansans that I know
arrive early, on time, or show
up just as everyone is leaving,
restarting the clock at early evening;

although we lead Seattle lives
six other nights, can eat endives
(for example), and are connoisseurs
we navigate tap beer and Dewar’s
pick through each three-dollar plate,
let the unspaghettied world wait.