A famous poet is standing in the Chapel, brushed
with the sleepy blue-green light that
yawns around him, Morning reminding
him that he's roused her again at 4:30.
He's holding a styrofoam cup
and talking about the last man to see the face of Lincoln,
a plumber, I think.
I'm busy watching his hands
fiddle with his jacket, his pants pocket
and the cup itself
and I'm wondering if veins and wrinkles reveal
that these hands have made tapestries of words.
It's Nebraska now in his thoughts, and a note in his mailbox:
"Ted-your newspaper did not come today-Iris."
And I envision Iris,
nods in the suit she bought for her nephew's wedding,
fidgets and smiles self-consciously from a pew,
a little bemused that she's been written into presence on a California morning
before I blink and send her back
from my drowsy imagination
to tend to the Nebraska mailbox
of a famous poet.