Sitting All Evening Alone in the Kitchen -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #181)Sitting All Evening Alone in the Kitchen The cat has fallen asleep,  the dull book of a dead moth  loose in its paws. The moon in the window, the tide  gurgling out through the broken shells  in the old refrigerator. Late, I turn out the lights.  The little towns on top of the stove  glow faintly neon,  sad women alone at the bar. -- Ted Kooser

Flying at Night -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #105)Flying at Night Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his. -- Ted Kooser

Self-Portrait at Thirty-Nine -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #79)Self-Portrait at Thirty-Nine A barber is cutting the hair; his fingers, perfumed by a rainbow of bottled oils, blanket the head with soft, pink clouds. Through these, the green eyes, from their craters, peer. There's a grin lost somewhere in the folds of the face, with a fence of old teeth, broken and leaning, through which asides to the barber pounce catlike onto the air. This is a face which shows its age, has all of the coin it started with, with the look of having been counted too often. Oh, but I love my face! It is that hound of bronze who faithfully stands by the door to hold it open wide— on light, on water, on leafy streets where women pass it with a smile. Good dog, old face; good dog, good dog. -- Ted Kooser

Selecting A Reader -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #10)Selecting A Reader First, I would have her be beautiful, and walking carefully up on my poetry at the loneliest moment of an afternoon, her hair still damp at the neck from washing it. She should be wearing a raincoat, an old one, dirty from not having money enough for the cleaners. She will take out her glasses, and there in the bookstore, she will thumb over my poems, then put the book back up on its shelf. She will say to herself, "For that kind of money, I can get my raincoat cleaned." And she will. -- Ted Kooser