Best Visionarynice Poems

I Love Paul Giamatti

Because for one thing, he's from Brooklyn Heights,
and glares at strangers.  A French guy (Parisian, 
of course) once remarked to me, "You Americans 
are nice to strangers--we are nice to people we know."  
Well, Giamatti subscribes to that, and if anyone 
claims soulful, however pragmatic, it's the French. 

And, for another thing, he (Mr. G) appears chronically 
stressed out.  Sometimes not even Ma-ra-na-tha or 
that old chestnut OM chanted while deep-breathing helps; 
(though, clearly, no breath at all is a sure relaxant).  

My man Giamatti is making a movie about souls. 
He sees the souls of certain celebs as a chickpea, 
an ear of roasted corn, a set of nice whitewall tires, 
a doorknob, a crazy box of crabs, and best one 
of all, a blood orange left on a window sill, dried out 
and leathery.  So, Mr. G, (Palpitation 
of my Heart), What does the soul of a poet 
look like?  I imagine it as the invisible edge of 
the iced-over pond we skate on.

                          Thank you, THE NEW YORKER