Robert Ronnow
                                                Long As You're Living

                        Colonel Bob

No jets but a rooster mornings,
cows and goats. Corn, timber.
What is the relation of New York City
to this. Me, my mind. At home on Seaman Ave.,
jets, automobiles, sirens,
glass breaking, pigeons cooing, jays
complaining, crows crowing, people going
to work, jackhammers hammering, subways roaring.
We are gathered into cities to make room
for black bears and timber growing.

From the profuse plant life into the swarm
of varicolored people playing basketball
and inhabiting hard buildings. Our social service system
delivers meals and finds jobs. Our dirty streets
support the high heels of our sexual young women.
Produce from the countryside transported
by rail and interstate to Korean immigrants' markets.
After midtown offices empty, downtown nightclubs fill.

It is fun, it is alone in space, it is funny
that we feel we must explode it.
The hairy monkey, man, desires the smooth one,
woman, badly. She is looking softly at him
through the amber scotch in a subway ad.
Smell urine around somewhere. This is home
and I work to make it happy. The strange women
unafraid. The future satisfying and long lasting.
The world clean and friendly. With my ten thousand
heartbeats, lovebeats, wingbeats.

Copyright 2001 & 2007 by Robert Ronnow.