My Poem to Frankie G.
There are dogs in the field.
Yes.
They bark like dogs.
Put your hands on the ribs
and hold.
Between bones
you’ll find the luxury
of need.
Without need,
you will surely die.
The dogs are hungrier
than most poets I know.
Some poets only know need
by holding
the dog’s ribs,
fingering them
spoke by spoke by spoke.
But not you, because, look,
please note
on the walk home,
the vibrato:
your hands, yours,
are still barking.
Ode to Frankie G.
Big headed man. Lover of shiny things.
You are an awed opal, a jewely brain,
If anyone could pull off a cravat,
you could.
But you are unfit for tweed.
If pie-eyed applies,
your eyes are very good pie.
Perhaps a meringue.
On your letter of recommendation,
I will write:
If turned murderer,
Frankie G. wouldn’t stoop
to arsenic. He’s too sincere for that.
In sum, you are special,
but not in the mentally challenged
sense of the word.
I just thought: I couldn’t like
Frankie G. more if I tried.
But then I tried.
And now I do!
julianna baggott
