To a Dutchman on Finding My Notebook

Suppression lipping its sum
laps in what I want
to say to him; the one
who, finding and not opening
my notebook, returned it

Outside of the Nederlands Consulaat-
on Third Avenue, standing statuesque
himself, leaning tall on a dais the greyest
depiction in bronze of King David
imposes—all viewers knowing

It’s not his want of power
but his want of clothes we’re
showing fallen lids to—under
which stands this Dutchman
coolly offering a leather

Comfort—my compass recovered—which
ships within all my thoughts;
a volume without which I’d be lost,
they would wander—unfixed
lines, untethered rhymes astride

A stranger—in foreign
pocket free to unleash their
muzzle-loaded power;
I approach, not knowing these
steps are where a Goliath

Will be felled; a Dutchman
smiling, fires into piles my defiant stride’s
orangest pride, as he tries all he can
to stay silent; eyeing my beard, handing
over, as we arranged it, my little

Black book—between the white
ribs of which he’s slipped in
his number and address—
to which, I’m certain, I’ll send
a poem thanking him, like this.