When I grow up I want to be Stanley Kunitz
and wear sneaky tennis shoes wherever I want to wear them
flirt and dance with words so longingly they bloom in everyone’s
where I touch them and they remember me.
I want to be Stanley
getting younger every year, especially
at Dodge telling about his index cards of meaningful, locked-in
circulating energy poems by Yeats Blake Hopkins Hardy that have no date
telling about the pastel portrait about his ever burning
the lonely growing where he was a living taboo
so we know someone else has felt that way too, but still flowered
I almost forgot, I want to sit next to Maxine Kumin on the poetry shelf.
Stanley, this I promise, when I grow up to be you, I will
celebrate your birthday on July 29 every year maybe with Lucille
We will name you Flower and Gift and Poet
Most of all we will call out
for Stanley Jasspon Kunitz
Can you see us up on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street
waving to you?