THREE BEATS

Three Beats
put their feet
into the cold Charles river,
Kerouac, Rexroth and Creeley

and open their enfolded eye lids

as Evergreen trees yawn
near family garden plots

yet no one tells their secrets
or seeks anyone's pardon
over at Riley's
Cambridge jazz night spots

as dear John and Jane
love letters are composed
and sorted by city gossips
over dawn slips by
at the Mt. Auburn post office
by the dead letter file
under smiling Uncle Sam
by protest notes on Vietnam
in a time of Apocalypse,

yet we are not near
the Department of State
but at our zip code 02138,
here at Mt. Auburn cemetery
where Robert Creeley rests
at the back of Harvard yard
rests comfortably
as our guest and bard

yet we are also thinking

of Jack Kerouac's Boston-

Californian connection
as we few who demur
to find satisfaction
at his transfigured reaction
from Malibu or Big Sur,
we recognize what code
of honor echoed
from his surprised ode
receiving his literary prize
under a novel cover
of "On The Road,"
others would be surprised
by Beat feelings
for the bench and cloth
from  a Catholic Kerouac,
unlike Creeley and Rexroth
his brothers are worldly wise
often taxing one to another
and rise as the scholars
drying their shirts
darning socks
and cleaning collars
trying to relax
off the Pacific rocks,

each with arbitrary whims

or fragmentary ambitions

in folios, cantos, descants
by refrains and chants
against pro war politicians

into a arbitrary span
of burnished invoices
finding a JFK half dollar
within reach
of a  new politician's speech

sent from Widener library lines
out to UC Berkeley or UCLA

under the peace signs,

by the way stopping off
on the highway

playing black jack
at Reno's tables
someone else is ably winning
or losing with a priceless regret

from their dice games
spinning twice at roulette
while listening to the news
and  all wanting to go
to Vera Cruz.