My mother， poised around behavior， would say

    You are sitting there reading and smoking， Hans，

    And this would describe for her， to her utter

    Satisfaction， what it is you are doing.

    Knowing you I guess you are stationed there

    In grief， reverie， worry——your car broken

    Down， the mechanic wanting money， and you without，

    For the moment， what it takes——and you thinking

    Of love lost as you read that impossible book

    Your father last gave you……I see you smoking

    And as an addict myself I know this is something

    You are barely doing……The habit smokes itself

    And you， you are turning the page where the woman

    From New Orleans， like your woman， goes to Manhattan.

    I suppose my mother， in her mania， could never afford

    To think there was anything hovering around， anything

    Behind behavior. Unable to sit， to go into that sorrow

    Where what failed to happen presses against what did，

    She would get up， go out looking for "Something

    Different，" do anything to keep moving， behaving……

    Going. But you， Hans， you are a sitter， and I know

    You will not be getting up until you have put this time

    Behind you. And so your friends pass by waiting，

    Wanting to know what you will come up with when you rise

    From your stationary chair， our Hans reading and smoking.