Give Up After Mark Strand I give up my place in line, that early unmarked grave. I give up my attitude.  Here, take it.  Come on, it's yours. Whatsamatter, you don't want it?  Not so big now, hey? Yeah, I give up my parking tickets.  I roll them up in a big cardboard ball and throw them in the East River. I give up my socks, they have holes in them anyway. I give up my hair, little by little, year by year. I give up my barber, his jokes suck. I give up ketchup, or cat soup, that blue collar condiment.  I give it up reluctantly, I give it up as a sacrament.  I give up spreading it on french fries, those deadly, crispy snakes.  I give up oil and salt. I give up the ocean, that gray-green roar, that scent of decay breeding life.  I give up sand and merry-go-rounds. I give up baseball, that dead horsehide game.  It crawls across my t.v.  I give up instant replay of pitches that catch the inside corner, I give up the sound  of a foul tip, the ball smacking the catcher's glove. I give up chalk.  I give up the sound it makes on the blackboard, the white residue on my hands. I give up its alkaline smell. I give up the detritus on my desk.  With the back of my arm I sweep it all onto the floor.  And I give up the floor and the dead rat rug lying there like a bad hairpiece. I give up rock 'n' roll, I give up Vivaldi, that cagey Jesuit, I give up my pickup truck.  I give up Paris and London and Rome.  I give up New York, my home, my home. I give up the E train, I give up Washington Square, I give up Columbia.  I have crossed the Hudson, my Rubicon.  I give up bagels and blintzes and diphthongs and the "ng" click, which means I give up Lawn-gi-land, which means I give up streets, which means I give up, I give up.  Which means I'll always be camping out. Steve Klepetar  If you have anything to say about his poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.