r-kv-r-y quartlery literary journal

poetry by joe mockus fall 2004
Grace

We live behind the oldest living
telephone pole in san francisco
gray scag professing high voltage
between porcelain cups you radiate
charm from an era when
wood steel and glass
perfected the sweet sound of future
Tiles crack the stucco bursts
to reconcile new mortgages
we sit in italian light here
late afternoon with my daughter
and study that electric tree
planted and hooked to this
our play ground home

And I see what I could see
if I were newborn watching
her call that broken pole by name
electric light surging
I can feel that blood beyond my fingers
and before I can remember I am
in but not of the world
constraint

awoke with a split head
so I sit at the table late.
bookshelf breaking up like a freighter
dumps contents all over the bed

as if I were taken care of.

throwing good dope after bad
black tea in the early light.
this wait has become
a thing in itself

as if I wanted nothing
Joseph Mockus is a Bay Area poet, rock 'n roll drummer and criminal
defense attorney.  A graduate of U.C. Berkeley's Literature Department,
his work has been published in the small University press.