| EXPLORER
Vast wilderness, at least to him -- playing
explorer
on the constant lookout for strange beasts
and man eating plants
among the phragmites, mud, willows, and rusted
cars.
It was acres (to him miles) between the highway
and the shore.
He peered through the grass and practiced
camouflage.
Then, he saw the half-torn-down shack, the
mattress, the empty beer cans,
the naked two wrestling.
He froze like a frightened fawn.
The two, not too distant in feet or in age,
were groaning.
He never heard such groans before,
or such hateful hisses either, after he was
discovered.
The explorer discovered what he had always
heard about
in schoolyard whispers.
He ran, weeds rudely slapping his face, and
fell over an old tire.
Arms, legs, face, all welts.
He heard his blood rushing,
and the scraping of swaying weeds,
nothing else.
He got up and went home.
Mother washed and bandaged him.
Big kids chased him was all he said.
For many nights after, he listened
for the groans and waited for the hisses to
come from the big bedroom.
He bit his blanket and counted the years,
how many he had, how many he had to go.
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ALL
SUCH RUINED HOUSES ARE HAUNTED
Donna stuttered.
We knew three boys who stuttered but no girl,
except Donna.
One of our gang heard his mom say
that her mother once worked in the Club Valley.
She danced by the willows under the red and
blue lights,
and served men in the house.
We knew what serving men meant, or thought
we did--
then the fire, then the ruin.
All such ruined houses are haunted,
but we'd play hide-and-seek there.
Donna would also hide in the drooping leaves,
but she played no games.
Once she stuttered to me not to tell,
for her mom carried a dog leash
which she used especially when drunk.
Her mother asked me once where Donna was hiding.
She was a grownup.
She beat the strap against her leg.
She knew gangsters, that's what I heard.
All this was many years ago.
A co-op now stands on the lot.
Of the weeping willows, the haunted house--not
a trace.
She asked where.
I told.
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SHADOWS
AND YELLOW LIGHTS
One empty bench before dawn,
before even the faintest blue lightens the
sky,
an empty bench awash with yellow under the
sodium lights,
the amber cutting into the black
almost exposing the park trees beyond the
steel fence,
while deeper in the park lies a kingdom of
shadows
under city lights blinded
by small and big boys who threw countless
stones.
The hooded one paces in the shadows.
Along the sidewalk an old man limps,
pushing a shopping cart that is both his crutch
and luggage,
the luggage of the destitute containing all
he has within rusty metal.
Like Sisyphus he pushes his squeaky cart
till he collapses on that park bench
becoming a fallen heap,
his ashen face yellowed by the light.
No more loads to tug for behind him the hooded
one moves
out of the umbra into the penumbra,
then out of all shadows into the yellow,
but even in that light the face remains featureless,
the soft amber glow can't penetrate the cowled
darkness.
Like a monk the hooded one's work is solitary,
Sisyphus would gladly welcome him.
No need for stealth.
The old beggar raises his head,
sees the approaching form,
lowers his head again and sleeps.
Later, sirens and flashing red lights can't
wake him
Soon the bench is devoid of all life,
empty of all traces of whoever sat on it,
be they morning pigeon feeders, evening lovers,
afternoon nannies watching playing toddlers,
or a very old man sprawled behind a shopping
cart
indifferent to the next sunrise.
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SHARP
ROCKS AND ETERNAL MOUNTAINS
Monday mornings I'd drive past a vacant lot
on my way to work.
But one Monday there was an interruption of
routine.
An old couch had been dumped there that Sunday
night,
along with a nonmatching pillow and ratty
green blanket.
In the chilly air, a stray dog was on the
pillow and tucked himself into the
blanket,
with his tail wagging against the couch upholstery.
Tuesday and times being hard, some poor scavenger
salvaged the couch,
and the dog was lying on the remaining blanket
and pillow.
His tail was still wagging.
But the pattern was set.
Wednesday the pillow was in shreds,
but the blanket still warmed the dog
and cushioned him against the pointed stones
of the vacant lot
as his tail wagged against the rocks.
His tail didn't wag that Thursday,
for it was wrapped under his fur
as he sat on the bare rocks without the blanket.
On Friday there were only the sharp rocks,
eternal as mountains,
which had existed before the dog found comfort
there and after he vanished.
And the soft shoulder of the road before me
was lined with those pointed
stones.
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SHOPLIFTER
He saw her, and yelled stop.
She ran out. He followed,
a crowd gathered by the garbage can where
the chase ended.
The el train's roaring brings all hands to
the ears,
except hers.
Middle-aged plain woman,
disordered gray hair, shapeless smock for
a dress,
chubby, cornered creature,
clutching
not food, not clothes, not medicine, but
a Cosmopolitan magazine, with the cover girl's
glamorous eyes
scrunched by ten tightened fingers.
A daydream exposed.
Crying leave me alone, she offers the spoiled
merchandise back.
The store owner accepts, then throws it in
the garbage
and says forget it.
The crowd whittles away; the woman
slowly walks past the grocery, the bakery,
the beauty parlor.
Another el roars by.
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TRAFFIC
JAM
He lay there
right in the middle of the god-damn road.
Used some kind of greasy cloth for a
blanket
and folded newspapers for a pillow.
Illuminated
by a line of headlights,
serenaded
by car horns,
and spoken to,
"Move you dirty bastard, outta the road,"
He just lay there.
Finally
he raised his head,
turned stomach-side down,
extended his arms
and pushed himself up.
Then he bent down
picked up a bottle
raised it over his head,
then put it to his mouth
and emptied it in one long gulp,
then threw it down,
splat!
He gave us all the finger
and lay down again
head on newspapers, body under cloth,
behind a barrier of broken glass.
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EMPTY AVENUES
3rd Ave., 6:30 a.m., Sunday, July 12,
all store gates are down.
Muffled morning sounds,
paper rustles in the street.
Two women, and two women only, wait by two
bus stops,
sitting on two benches on opposite sides of
the avenue.
One is a night reveler facing the dawn.
A blue strap on her dress is off her shoulder,
and one bra cup is slightly off her breast.
She slumps, then sprawls, then again slumps
on the bench.
Her mouth is opened. Red wine stains her dress.
But most of all she waits alone
An old woman also waits alone.
She sits stiffly and is too warmly dressed
for July.
A Bible seems anchored to her lap
but for a moment she uses it to fan
the sweat off her face.
Glancing heavenward, she returns it to her
lap
Distant church bells, she checks her
watch, checks it again.
They're facing each other but they're not face
to face.
Eyes avoid. Silence hangs between them.
The silence is broken by the stereophonic
roar of approaching busses.
They stop on schedule. The pneumatic doors
wheeze. The benches empty.
Rustling paper can again be heard.
The bagel man is first to raise his gate.
In three hours car horns will blare,
store loudspeakers will trumpet weekend sales,
and long lines will wait for lumbering busses.
But this morning begins meekly,
with two women, one young, one old, with opposite
destinations,
one fighting back sweat, one almost drooling,
one clutching her hope for salvation,
the other holding nothing in her palms,
one whose destination is clear and her deadline
certain,
the other going home, or somewhere, or nowhere
at all,
with an abundance of years to get there.
Their one thing in common,
they face this Sunday morning alone.
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