little
music that was left. Things had quieted way down,
though the sea was still running. Wind gave
the house a last shake when I rose
and took three steps, turned, took three more steps, turned.
Then I went to bed and slept wonderfully,
as always. My God, what a life!
But I thought I should explain, leave a note anyhow,
about this mess in the living room
and what went on here last night. Just in case
my
lights went out, and I keeled over.
Yes, there was a party here last night.
And the radio’s still on. Okay.
But if I die today, I die happy—thinking
of my sweetheart, and of that last popcorn.
After Rainy Days
After rainy days and the same serious doubts —
strange to walk past the golf course,
sun overhead, men putting, or teeing, whatever
they do on those green links. To the river that flows
past the clubhouse. Expensive houses on either side
of the river, a dog barking at this kid
who revs his motorcycle. To see a man fighting
a large salmon in the water just below
the footbridge. Where a couple of joggers have stopped
to watch. Never in my life have I seen anything
like this! Stay with him, I think, breaking
into a run. For Christ’s sake, man, hold on!
Interview
Talking about myself all day
brought back
something I thought over and
done with. What I’d felt
for Maryann—Anna, she calls
herself now—all those years.
I went to draw a glass of water.
Stood at the window for a time.
When I came back
we passed easily to the next thing.
Went on with my life. But
that memory entering like a spike.
Blood
We were five at the craps table
not counting the croupier
and his assistant. The man
next to me had the dice
cupped in his hand.
He blew on his fingers, said
Come
on
, baby! And leaned
over the table to throw.
At that moment, bright blood rushed
from his nose, spattering
the green felt cloth. He dropped
the dice. Stepped back amazed.
And then terrified as blood
ran down his shirt. God,
what’s happening to me?
he cried. Took hold of my arm.
I heard Death’s engines turning.
But I was young at the time,
and drunk, and wanted to play.
I didn’t have to listen.
So I walked away. Didn’t turn back, ever,
or find this in my head, until today.
Tomorrow
Cigarette smoke hanging on
in the living room. The ship’s lights
out on the water, dimming. The stars
burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.
But it’s all right, they’re supposed to do that.
Those lights we call stars.
Burn for a time and then die.
Me hell-bent. Wishing
it were tomorrow already.
I remember my mother, God love her,
saying, Don’t wish for tomorrow.
You’re wishing your life away.
Nevertheless, I wish
for tomorrow. In all its finery.
I want sleep to come and go, smoothly.
Like passing out of the door of one car
into another. And then to wake up!
Find tomorrow in my bedroom.
I’m more tired now than I can say.
My bowl is empty. But it’s my bowl, you see,
and I love it.
Grief
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife’s name from hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn’t see it.
Not until this morning.
Harley’s Swans
I’m trying again. A man has to begin
over and over—to try to think and feel
only in a very limited field, the house
on the street, the man at the corner drug store.
— SHERWOOD ANDERSON , FROM A LETTER
Anderson, I thought of you when I loitered
in front of the drug store this afternoon.
Held onto my hat in the wind and looked down
the street for my boyhood. Remembered my dad
taking me to get haircuts —
that rack of antlers mounted on a wall
next to the calendar picture of a
music that was left. Things had quieted way down,
though the sea was still running. Wind gave
the house a last shake when I rose
and took three steps, turned, took three more steps, turned.
Then I went to bed and slept wonderfully,
as always. My God, what a life!
But I thought I should explain, leave a note anyhow,
about this mess in the living room
and what went on here last night. Just in case
my
lights went out, and I keeled over.
Yes, there was a party here last night.
And the radio’s still on. Okay.
But if I die today, I die happy—thinking
of my sweetheart, and of that last popcorn.
After Rainy Days
After rainy days and the same serious doubts —
strange to walk past the golf course,
sun overhead, men putting, or teeing, whatever
they do on those green links. To the river that flows
past the clubhouse. Expensive houses on either side
of the river, a dog barking at this kid
who revs his motorcycle. To see a man fighting
a large salmon in the water just below
the footbridge. Where a couple of joggers have stopped
to watch. Never in my life have I seen anything
like this! Stay with him, I think, breaking
into a run. For Christ’s sake, man, hold on!
Interview
Talking about myself all day
brought back
something I thought over and
done with. What I’d felt
for Maryann—Anna, she calls
herself now—all those years.
I went to draw a glass of water.
Stood at the window for a time.
When I came back
we passed easily to the next thing.
Went on with my life. But
that memory entering like a spike.
Blood
We were five at the craps table
not counting the croupier
and his assistant. The man
next to me had the dice
cupped in his hand.
He blew on his fingers, said
Come
on
, baby! And leaned
over the table to throw.
At that moment, bright blood rushed
from his nose, spattering
the green felt cloth. He dropped
the dice. Stepped back amazed.
And then terrified as blood
ran down his shirt. God,
what’s happening to me?
he cried. Took hold of my arm.
I heard Death’s engines turning.
But I was young at the time,
and drunk, and wanted to play.
I didn’t have to listen.
So I walked away. Didn’t turn back, ever,
or find this in my head, until today.
Tomorrow
Cigarette smoke hanging on
in the living room. The ship’s lights
out on the water, dimming. The stars
burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.
But it’s all right, they’re supposed to do that.
Those lights we call stars.
Burn for a time and then die.
Me hell-bent. Wishing
it were tomorrow already.
I remember my mother, God love her,
saying, Don’t wish for tomorrow.
You’re wishing your life away.
Nevertheless, I wish
for tomorrow. In all its finery.
I want sleep to come and go, smoothly.
Like passing out of the door of one car
into another. And then to wake up!
Find tomorrow in my bedroom.
I’m more tired now than I can say.
My bowl is empty. But it’s my bowl, you see,
and I love it.
Grief
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife’s name from hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn’t see it.
Not until this morning.
Harley’s Swans
I’m trying again. A man has to begin
over and over—to try to think and feel
only in a very limited field, the house
on the street, the man at the corner drug store.
— SHERWOOD ANDERSON , FROM A LETTER
Anderson, I thought of you when I loitered
in front of the drug store this afternoon.
Held onto my hat in the wind and looked down
the street for my boyhood. Remembered my dad
taking me to get haircuts —
that rack of antlers mounted on a wall
next to the calendar picture of a
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