I received this poem yesterday from my good friend and writing buddy, Liz Mcrae:

My friend is a grocer and a poet.

He is the father of three boys who are becoming men,

husband of the woman who taught me how to give birth to my babies,

owner of Buddy, a little dog who thinks he's big,

wearer of Santa hats as he celebrates Hanukkah,

quick to grin and quick to cry,

a hugger,

and quite possibly the only other person in Big Sky that knows the poem, "Otherwise", by Jane Kenyon.

He spent years discarding lettuces,

letting avocados ripen to perfection,

discounting bananas that we made into bread in our kitchen,

tasting wine from places much warmer than our snowy home,

making and taking orders

in the little quiet spaces of his store.

I suggested he hide a pad of paper and pencil underneath the register

and sneak poems in between customers

like the kids in the back with that jar of swedish fish.

The first poem he sent me-

He was on the interstate with his father. 

Like any good poem,

I, the reader, was sitting in there too. 

It was a short poem, 

but changed the way I think of Mark.

From then on it was poet first, grocer second.

My friend is a poet and a grocer.

His poetry reminds me that the ordinary is beautiful,

the understated story can fill a room,

laughter can make me cry,

that we create because it heals us,

because someday it will be otherwise.

We need more people who bring us with them

to sit on the woven back seat of a car

careening down a highway in New York.

We need more people who care which word comes first,

which word to leave out.

When to sit in a quiet spot stealing moments for poems,

and when to bust open the windows,

let the returning birds sing inside. 

I love you, poet friend!

This was my reply:

Liz,
I am so touched by your poem
Of course it made me cry
But in keeping things light
Let us workshop this poem right now

I don’t think there is any quiet spaces at the Hungry Moose
I love the way you change the order of grocer and poet
I remember the poem about driving my father 
Near the Taconic Parkway but don’t remember it being the first poem I ever sent you

At some point I did write a few Hungry Moose Haiku
Similar to Williams writing on prescription pads

It’s hard to believe that now I wake up everyday
Wishing things were otherwise 

I’m confused by the ending
Not sure what you mean by the returning birds

I love you poet friend

Mark

What Exit?

by Mark Robin

What exit did we just pass? Dad asks

The Taconic, I reply driving the interstate,

heading south from Boston, from my nephew Clay’s Bar Mitzvah

Good. Stay away from my family –

you’ve done enough you, he bawls

Otherwise

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

Jane Kenyon