Who doesn’t want a warm
pink center in his life?
So when the old poet
said to the waitress, Medium, please, her rapid
reply was such that his wife—
seeing his confusion,
having ordered the same—
quickly clarified, slowly
repeating the syllables
as if he were some old guy
beyond his 75 years.
Nodding childlike, he said, Yes, but not too pink,
not pink as in rare
which my wife prefers, and then he said, How
amazing it is that the chef
is able to time degrees
of pink at the deep center
of a piece of meat . . .
the waitress smiling and
taking their menus as she
asked if they would like bread,
which they did, and another
vodka martini for his wife.
How Might
Having come
a long way,
farther than
some though
still to be said
how short
of others,
how might
I remain
properly alive?
And if I stay
a while —dare I wish
the plus
of more
as my heart
would have it?—
how might
I abide?
Roger Pfingston is a retired teacher of English and photography. He has poems
in recent issues of Hamilton Stone Review, American Journal of Poetry, and Dash. New work will appear in the fall issue of Poetry East. His chapbook, A Day
Marked for Telling, is available from Finishing Line Press.
