Poems For "Barry"—The First Two

His name is Not Barry
~ Well! How much interest in Life
is possible? ~
Everyday, it does not
Bother me to duck my head
As he passes and
Naming things
Does more harm than Good,
At times. So I found a
Name that may make sense
Only because it does not like
How the Sun rubs tarnished
On the scratched desk-tops
And to have a set
Explanation for what
Desk-tops and window-shades
Amount to is
Is it?
It is!
As long as I give him
Some Name, he will descend
Those stairs softly, like
A Russian like a Frenchman
Unlike the Italian which he is
Or may be.
His surname is.
And the odd feeling of crying
And laughing and being in
Love as he passes me
In the Morning
On the Stairs

I laughed
~ to myself, yet ~
the image of anyone finding
their voice is a Good one,
and for him…
well, across the hall in room number
Heaven-on-Earth (to coin a
Phrase) his rough
Athlete's tone talking on
Francisco Franco and
Herman Goering
Once, in the blue-scented
Pretty glass days of Late Winter,
A German echoed
There…myself, enraptured by it,
But now:
Tho' not quite solace, he
Is an Italian and he asks
About the German air force
Here, in comparative silence
But his young and probing
Voice I whisper
"the Luftwaffe"