Even the sky here in Connecticut has it, That wry look of accomplished conspiracy, The look of those who've gotten away With a petty but regular white collar crime. When I pick up my shirts at the laundry, A black woman, putting down her Daily News, Wonders why and how much longer our luck Will hold. "
Appointed Connecticut State Poet Laureate on July 1, 2010, Dick Allen has published seven poetry collections and won numerous awards including a Pushcart Prize, the Robert Frost prize, and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and Ingram Merrill Poetry Foundation.
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Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part
Her sickness brought me to Connecticut. Mornings I walk the dog: that part of life is intact. Who's painted, who's insulated or put siding on, who's burned the lawn with lime—that's the news on Ardmore Street. The leaves of the neighbor's respectable rhododendrons curl under in the cold. He has backed the car