Look into these woods and see
how old wheels creased a road
into the yielding earth.
Follow it
to where it peters out
in a clearing and 
a cellar hole.

New England’s
full of these — gray stones
stacked into the cold ground.
Memoirs of lost families, 
homesteads.  

The new woods
around them conceal failed orchards
where deer rejoice, a little drunk
on fermented, fallen fruit.  

Sit here a while
on the ruins and think of seeing
Nipmuc or Passamaquoddy ghosts,
though they are gone.  These woods
aren’t even the ones from their past.

Pretend it’s all still happening here
because it’s all still happening here —

seen the foreclosure rate lately?

When the phrase
“I want to hurt him”
comes into your mouth or brain
about a variety of men
as often as it has lately,

it must mean you’ve been spending time
on the Web,
on the TV,

in the good old US of A.

Some will deplore this, but 

man up — surely,
someone’s got to do it and
you’re the obvious choice.  You’re so
calm, usually,  So level headed.  You
can be trusted with such wet work — 
you’re no hot head.  

I’ll bet the eagle 
on the Great Seal that given
a sheaf of arrows and an olive branch,
you’ll choose to beat the offender
with the olive branch.  

When your picture comes up after the fact
on the Web,
on TV,

in the good old US of A,

please try and have the grace
not to be shocked 
at what they say about you.