William Heath has published four poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, Going Places, Alms for Oblivion; three chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio, Leaving Seville, Inventing the Americas; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, Blacksnake’s Path; a history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); a book of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award from Hiram College. He lives in Annapolis. www.williamheathbooks.com
High Tea at Avebury
High tea in the walled
garden of the vicarage,
not far from a circle
of stones I have come
to see, remnants of a
prehistoric England far
from merry, yet intriguing.
The sun was the center
of worship in those times,
the huge stones placed
to capture its seasonal
movements in the sky.
But back to high tea,
a ritual so many Brits
find as irresistible as
their flower gardens,
and I do too, who can
forget clotted cream
topped with jam, or is
it the other way around,
on a freshly baked scone?
And English tea from
a flower-patterned pot,
with a touch of milk,
a spoonful of sugar,
is the very definition
of a mid-afternoon pick-
me-up at the very hour
spirits and eyelids droop,
craving an infusion of
the perfect elixir.
The Poet in New York
The moment I step out
of the subway the people
of Manhattan always
recognize me, they honk
their horns incessantly
and in the distance I hear
sirens heading my way,
and every time I wave
my hand a yellow car
pulls up to the curb,
offers to take me any-
where I want to go as
we speed up the avenue,
and when on a whim
I hop out at a red light
he, too, honks his horn
real loud to wish me
one more happy visit.
The Need for Trees
Human progress is measured
by taking land away from trees,
cutting them down to clear
the ground and build houses,
plant crops, create fields for
livestock to graze and range.
In the time of the Neanderthals
stone axes gave men a sharp
edge against thick trunks, from
then on humans had their way
with the trees. By Anglo-Saxon
times most of England had been
cleared of its dense forests.
Trees were felled for grazing,
farming, and for hardwoods
to construct various structures
essential for farms, towns,
and city dwelles, to say nothing
of the need for tall masts that
enabled Britania to rule the waves.
That a lack of trees harms the way
we breathe and our reliance on pleasant
weather has recently come, too
late, to cross our minds.
I Am Not a Robot
Recently my computer
has been asking me if
I am a robot. A question
I never asked it to ask,
who does it think it is,
I wonder, wasn’t that
a robotic thing to do?
But my computer is
a stubborn son of a gun,
or a nerd who began his
rise to fame and fortune
in a family garage,
and by fortune I mean
billions into trillions.
I’m left with no choice
in order to belong to
this world-wide high-
tech club where every-
body loves each other,
or is it that everybody
hates and tries to club
each other? This leaves
me no choice, I’d say,
than to use my cursor,
as I am comprehensively
cursing, to check the god-
damned box like any
good robot would.
Apartment Hunting In Lexington
(1969)
She lives in a columned mansion near
downtown Lexington that features
a historical plaque and rises over shot-
gun houses on three sides. She shows us
the hall where they once rolled back
the carpet to dance, the dining table
for twelve, the painting of a mounted
Henry Clay leaving for Congress.
Since her husband died a leaking faucet
brought down plaster in the salon
and her cat, knocked silly by a swinging
door, has to be put down.
After her husband’s funeral she
notes that no one keeps calling hours.
When a person died there were three
or four times people could stop by
to express sympathy. Now they only
have one time and it’s short. Nobody
is taught how to care anymore. Nobody
wears mourning, black armband for men,
black hat and dress for women. You
stayed in mourning for a certain period,
depending on the relationship.
She wishes for time and energy
to clean the chandeliers that once
sparkled with icy fire, but she hasn’t,
so she’ll sell and move to Florida.
“Don’t you die,” she says, her face
wrinkled as a winter apple, shaking
a finger in our direction as we leave.
Her old mansion is marvelous, but
her husband is dead and everything
falls apart. “Don’t you die,” she warns,
(looking at my wife but speaking to me)
“or if you have to die, don’t die first.”
The Galway Review 