Willie Smith- A Poem

GET GOING

Because I don’t get it,

don’t get out

while the getting is good,

I get it in the heart.

Slumped over spaghetti,

just outside Gettysburg,

thinking of Paul Getty,

still I can’t

get it out of my heart.

The waitress tweaks the thorn,

jiggling past with ketchup.

The roses in her face

replace thoughts of Getty.

The Gettysburg dead all

rise at her passing breast.

Again my heart gets it.

I just don’t get it –

why the hurt of beauty

gets my heart.

She gets away and I

get the spaghetti past

my teeth into the gut.

The dead are mustered back

into the grave, Getty

gets the world by the tail

and I get this tale of

the rose, the thorn, the heart.