On the Uptown 6
Always one's sense of humanity—
on a NYC local train
until it passes beyond the midtown express stations
the hub stations where many get off
and every car jam-packed with people of every description
and most of them strangers
all heading in the same direction for ten or twenty minutes
for ten or twenty minutes
body touching body
faces facing faces
staring or trying not to stare
trying to hide in the head
behind a veil of thoughts
all shaken and shoved and rocked
in a shared career of limited destiny
railed and rigid and inevitable
affording glimpses of beauty and mystery and pathos
interpreted severally and secretly
and rarely a word spoken
except by the conductor's voice
over a garbled intercom
announcing stops and next stops
and warning everyone to stand clear of the closing doors
—is heightened
and sometimes even deepened
before one arrives
and gets off
feeling released
and relieved
ΩΩΩ
A Work in Progress
A thought keeps turning cartwheels in my head—
like Susan Finnegan
in the schoolyard
in Sixth Grade—
Sister Matthew
watching wimpled
while we played—
the thought that I won’t know it when I’m dead—
playing hopscotch—
playing tag—
jumping double Dutch—
Capture the Flag—
Amid the riot of that recess running out—
her school skirt
flouncing on the handspring—
fluttering
flaring
flashing of white linen
like a shout—
ΩΩΩ
Second Clutch
“Be gentle with my heart,” she said.
And he recalled the robin’s egg
A boy once found
Beneath a willow tree
And held for a moment
In the palm of his hand
Like a star sapphire,
And what his father said
When he got home
About certain things
In this world.
He said:
“Look. Don’t touch.”
ΩΩΩ
Benches
He sat on one of the benches alongside the curb
with his back to the avenue
facing the park
I sat across the sidewalk from him
on one of the benches alongside the chain-link fence
with my back to the park
facing the avenue
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon of some immemorial spring or summer
I'd just come off the courts after three hours of three-man
just cooling off and waiting for my friends to finish up inside the park
Beside me on the bench I had my old grungy Voit
still with a true enough bounce after a thousand Saturdays in the park
although its positive grip was worn away for years of dribbling on pavement
I was in cutaway shorts and a tee soaked through with sweat clingy and cool
I wore white high top Cons in their own way also cool
I must have been eighteen or nineteen
He was overdressed
He wore a flat cap, like a newsboy from the Great Depression,
a sport coat over a cardigan over a button-down collar
baggy trousers and brogans
He worked his mouth continually in the absence of teeth
his beaky nose and chin seemed to be trying to meet
He didn't seem to notice me
He didn't seem to be looking past me
through the chain-link fence
into the park
either
He seemed to be looking inward
or back in time
I remember him to this day
all this time later
Even at the time I understood
I was looking at myself
ΩΩΩ
You’d Have To Say
(Revised Version)
In the photograph she curls up
Lamblike in the boy’s lap
Looking back at the camera
You’d have to say laughing.
The boy, almost a man,
Is almost smiling,
A canny twinkle in his eye;
The mother, plainly smiling:
A pleased and pleasant smile dimples her face,
Serene and soft and full of quiet grace.
The room as well,
All woodgrain, white and wicker and pastel,
The room itself, all smiles,
All warm and bright with modest Country Living cheer.
But she, you’d have to say, the dog,
Is rather more than smiling here.
Cuddled by the boy,
Caressed by the mother’s hand,
Unposed, unpoised by joy:
Her fleecy head tossed back and fair,
One floppy ear unslung,
Her little big black nose aflare,
Mouth open on a long pink lolling tongue—
The dog, you’d have to say, is laughing.
ΩΩΩ
You’d Have To Say
In the photograph she curls up
Lamblike in the boy’s lap
Looking back at the camera
You’d have to say laughing
The boy, almost a man,
Relaxed in his D.A.R.E. cerise tee and dark cargo shorts,
A twinkle in his eye, is almost smiling.
The boy’s mother, cross-legged on the arm of the chair,
Is smiling tight-lipped and dimpled,
La Gioconda in white Capris and midnight blue top.
Even the room, so pleasant, clean and bright—
The lustrous hardwood floors and cloud white walls;
The sunlit wood-framed window, the oaken armoire, the wicker baskets,
The framed Vorpal poster for Gio Biondi;
The armchair upholstered in Venetian red and the potted schefflera rising behind it,
Palmate, like a dozen hands raised in blessing—
The living room itself is smiling.
But she, you’d have to say, the dog,
Cuddled by the boy,
Caressed by the mother’s hand,
Is more than smiling:
Her shaggy head turned up in rapture,
One floppy ear thrown back,
Her big, wet, black raspberry nose flaring,
Her mouth wide open on a long pink lolling tongue—
The dog is joyous.
The dog, you’d have to say, is laughing
ΩΩΩ
Preserves
a poem
Jelly you sieve
And jam you don’t—
Maybe I’ll tell you
And maybe I won’t.
Just do what you’re doing,
The best that you can—
That’s all there is to it
Now that you began.
The thing to remember,
And remember it well—
Some deeds go to Heaven;
Some deeds go to Hell.
The moral is simple:
Don’t spit in the wind.
And make sure your hopes
Are sagaciously pinned.
Don’t beard the old lion.
Don’t slaughter the lamb.
And don’t above all
Confuse jelly and jam.
Jelly you sieve
And jam you don’t—
Someday you’ll know this.
Or maybe you won’t.
ΩΩΩ
Dream For a Sunday Night
I dreamed about Joe Coiro last night
Imagine!
He was my best friend for a year and a half
He was from Hester Street
He'd been transferred and arrived with a ready rep
A kid from Hester Street
tall and tough and good-natured and funny
finding humor in everything
golden and gone
and graced with quick high color in his cheeks
whenever he played stoop ball or ace-king-queen in the school street
that great pompadour swooping out to a teendreamy flop
the girls flipped over him
and I let him copy my homework
Man! He hadn't changed at all!
Looked just like he did in Seventh Grade!
Grand dream it was for any night
but especially for a Sunday night
without commercial interruption
ΩΩΩ
Cupid's Bow
Every woman has a distance
at which she looks her best
regardless of complexion
size or shape and all the rest
but the arrow is in motion
and before its flight is spent
all distances recovered
a woman’s chief charm is her scent
ΩΩΩ
Stone Fruit
O
sloe
scissura
indehiscent
tart astringent
flesh unfolding
seed enfolding
wrap my soul
