3 of 77

Three poems in Garrison Keillor's 77 Love sonnets

1.
March

It's March in St. Paul. Eight a.m. A pale
Frozen mist in the air. The snow is gritty gray
Around the stone statue of Nathan Hale.
Scott Fitzgerald walks here almost every day
Hand in hand in Bessie Smith, or Maria Callas,
And Franz Kafka and Judy Garland stroll in the snow
And Princess Diana escapes from Kensington Palace
To meet Jack Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe.
They all look calm and very elegant indeed,
Despite all the grief they've been through.
To comprehend a nectar requires sorest need,
So said Emily Dickinson. (She's here, too)
Life is tragic. Oh God, the miseries we bear
But it's always good to get out in the fresh air.

2.
Supper
You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie
And minced garlic drizzled with olive oil
And baked them until the brie was bubbly
And we ate them lovingly, our legs coiled
Together under the table.
And salmon with dill
And lemon and whole-wheat cous cous
Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill.
Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.
It was beautiful, the candles, the linen and silver,
The sun shining down on our northern street,
Me with my hand on your leg.
You, my lover,
In your jeans and green
T-shirt and beautiful bare feet.
How simple life is. We buy a fish. We are fed.
We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

3.
So Much
She is ten. "I love you. So much," she tells me
On the phone in the evening. She loves the phrase
And "I miss you. So much." I'm in Knoxville, Tennessee,
En route to Phoenix, on the road for six days.
Four to go. Airports, freeways, Holiday Inns,
Dennys, USA Today, highway America.
Every night, audiences expecting the genuine,
And me, lonely, on the road through Jericho.
It's an okay life. Dangerous but okay.
I don't drink. I don't stay out late. I eat right.
But the lonesome road blues follows me around all day
And there are rocks and nails in my bed at night
I think about her. I miss her. I get dressed
And go tell stories about families in the Midwest.

4. (1 to grow on)
Prayer
“Here I am Lord, and here is my prayer:
Please be there.
I don’t want to ask too much-miracles and such-
Just whisper in the air: please be there.
When I die like other folks,
I don't to find out You're a hoax.
So I'm not on my knees asking for world peace
Or that polar icecaps freeze
And save the polar bear
Or even that the poor be fed
Or angels hover o'er my bed
but I sure would be pissed
if I should have been an atheist;
oh Lord, please exist.