Old Groups

We are the underground

Of the tears of things

In rotogravure

Where Chekhov's brothers are watching

And a girl Robert Frost,

The other side of words.

Not a face is saying,

"Tm only a relative

Of greatness in row two."

Each fills up his space

In separate life,

Meals and the weather,

A try at coherence.

"Helping and serving"

Is part-time, if at all.

Life is so heavy

In the old groups

That prophets are without honor.

What they have to go on

Is love and a grudged OK,

The good that is always

Coming out of Nazareth.