Elegy

Elegy


The bird on the other side of the valley
sings cuckoo cuckoo and he sings back,
inside, knowing what it meant
to the Elizabethans.
Hoping she is unfaithful now.
Delicate and beautiful,
making love with the Devil
in his muggy bedroom
behind the shabby office.
While he is explaining the slums
were there when he got the job.
And the Buicks burning
by the roads in the dark.
He was not the one doing the judging,
he says. Or the one pointing down
at the lakes of burning lead.
He is feeding her lemons.
Holding shaved ice in his mouth
and sucking her nipples
to help with the heat.

Jack Gilbert

Posted over on The New Yorker