Today I visited with Robert Frost,
But not the Robert Frost of Kennedy’s
Inaugural, and not the piss and fire
Poet who worried, when he heard that Carl
Sandburg had died, if he was number one
At last. The Bob I met with still was young
And only known in Derry. He’s the one
The neighbors knew as lazy—sitting on
His porch when there was hay to cut and bale;
A lazy bum who’d rather sit and dream
And waste his time with words than get to work.
I listened to the wind and whippoorwills.
He hadn’t anything to say to me,
So just like him I sat, a lazy bum
Enjoying doing nothing in the sun.