This is what I wrote (in awkward solidarity with Philip Levine)

Setting: Monhegan, early,
sitting with my coffee,
just finished reading a poem by Levine.


I'm waiting for the women to leave.
My wife and her sister.
They are getting ready to go for a walk.
I am trying to be patient
But Levine isn't helping.
He is so uncomfortable in the world.
He upsets me, but in a good way.
He makes me a better poet.
He sees a crushed oil can on the road,
"not the usual cat",
And wonders if a crow came for the entrails
If he would laugh.
I wouldn't laugh.
I am not Levine.
I am Lindorff.
I would feel bad for the crow
But glad that it was a can
And not a cat.
We are both complicated
But he hurts more than me.
He and I are in different orbits.
When the women leave
I will write.
But it gradually occurs to me
That they have already left.
And, furthermore,
This is what I wrote.
They were so quiet,
I missed my chance to relish
The moment of their exit
From this collapsed universe
Of tired metaphor
Into a tender new morning
On this gentlest of islands.