.
At four thirty in the morning,
I couldn’t sleep. Five floors below,
on an otherwise deserted street,
two girls, all syrup and chocolate,
sat side by side on the back seat
shelf of a colorless old convertible.
Lying across the seat, like he was
taking a bath, a shirtless Latino
bathed in the light from his cell
phone, and the attention from
one of the girls.
Past the open drivers side door, a
light-skinned girl in a halter top, sat
on the hood; her legs apart, allowing
another Latino, wearing a white vest
full of muscles, to stand in between
and kiss her.
I wanted to leave them be but could
not; the music coming from the car
was too loud, and I think I hated them.
The first egg missed and went unnoticed.
But not the second. The second egg,
and last one left, exploded squarely
on the head of the amorous driver;
who called me a motherfucker but
couldn’t see me, because I was already
hiding. I waited until they drove away,
and climbed back into bed; but it
was useless: I was wide awake,
and with no eggs left for breakfast.
.
Day by day,
Year by year,
And in between:
I sit here waiting
For summer to begin;
And when it does,
Ah, here it is,
I turn this chair
A few degrees,
And wait for
Summer to end.
.
I heard the quiet
lock of the front
door, and I knew:
Last night, while
we were sleeping,
the people we once
imagined we were,
got up and left.
.
Remember when a day
was summer long;
when we rode our bikes
around the neighborhood
like kings; when we
broke all the windows,
and carved our names
into everything;
when our hearts
were our compass;
when we sneaked out
at night, and lit our
faces with cigarettes;
when all we wanted,
was for someone to see us;
.
On the notice board,
in front of an audience
of brightly colored pins,
a pen hangs by its neck
from a piece of string.
On the walls of a
fluorescent corridor,
paper arrows point to
where I am supposed
to go, then follow me.
.
As the bus of retirees pulled up in front of the mall,
Ed Meyerstein - who at 87 years old still liked to be
called Colonel - took the microphone from the driver
and delivered an impassioned speech about how, if
they stayed together and looked out for one another,
they could overcome anything.
Some passengers had heard him give the speech
before, a few sighed, one or two had read Shakespeare’s
Henry V and were surprised. But to the uninitiated,
the Colonel’s words filled their lungs with youth
and galvanized their will.
The Colonel’s strategy was simple: once inside the
mall, the army of pensioners would huddle together
and form a Roman ‘tortoise’. Using their recycled
shopping bags as shields, with walking sticks on the
flanks, and oxygen tanks in the center, they could
repel the oncoming teenage horde.
.
My friend the actor, who, for ten years
hasn’t acted (except at the dinner table, where
he sometimes does his Christopher Walken
impersonation) just called to say he got a bit
part on a TV show. A bit part, he explained,
was when there was at least one line of dialogue,
as opposed to a walk-on, where there was no
dialogue; and he had one line in his role as
a parking attendant. He also explained why
he would have to cancel lunch, as he was on
his way to the photographer’s studio to get
new head-shots. Then, in his best Brando,
he said he had a feeling it was going to be
a good year for all of us, and that he could
have been a contender.
.
As the day’s shadow play comes to an end,
trees spill like ink over italic men with sloping
suitcases, and women as tall and slippery as buildings.
Beneath the outstretched arms of curious streetlights,
muddy kids on rubber bicycles, circle themselves
one last time and go their separate ways.
.
I am happiest
In the half-light of early morning:
Before hangovers smoke cigarettes;
Before people strap bombs to their chests;
Before luck plays its part in all of this;
Before God, and my own excuses.
.
In the hallway mirror he looked older than he remembered, and a little overweight.
At the last minute, he had decided to wear the Paul Smith shirt she had given him
for Christmas, and the doubt in his choice reflected in the eyes of the girl in the
elevator. But it was too late to change. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and
checked the time. The girl got off on the ninth floor, taking the silence with her,
and allowing him to finally breathe out; then, realizing he had left his keys in the
apartment, he swore. He remembered the day he gave her a set of keys, and the
shape they made in her hand. He was sure she would have them with her,
and if not, it would be a reason to walk her home.
As he left the building, he imagined the evening: He told himself to look her in
the eye when he spoke; to listen to what she had to say; to hold her hand when
he said sorry. He thought about painting the apartment. He could go to the
hardware store in the morning. They could have breakfast in bed. They could
go for a walk along the river. She could unimagine the things he had said.
As he approached the restaurant, he hoped she was already there,
so he could apologize for being late.
.
I woke up with a bruise on my arm.
Blackening purple fingers, revealed
the shape of a hand. It was as though
someone had grabbed me in my sleep
and tried to wake me. But there was
no one here. There was no sign of an
earthquake. No smell of fire. The windows
were closed, and the chain was still on the door.
As I made a pot of coffee, I consoled myself
with the thought that, whoever it was,
it couldn’t have been that important.
.
In the crackle of static;
In the stairwell echo of televisions;
In the slope of things;
In the gathering corners;
In the dim light of peregrine;
In the breathless air thick
with the smell of ground
beef, onion, and cigarettes;
In the face of the man in his
undershirt, and boxer shorts
covered with hundred dollar bills;
In the little boy who wont
let go of my hand;
In the swollen lips and blood
stained teeth of the young
girl in the doorway.
In her torn summer hat;
In the Lord’s name;
In the hell of us;
In the way she smiles.
.
In the local all-night deli, above cans
of coconut milk and kidney beans,
hangs The Concert by Vermeer.
Rahim, the guy that works there, told
me it’s a fake, but I don’t believe him.
I don’t believe anything he says.
That being said, if the stolen painting
was ever returned, I would never get
to see it. So, I keep my mouth shut.
.
Tangled, in a diamond necklace,
two quarreling magpies fall
from the sky: in this morning’s
dogfight between sorrow and joy.
.
A small group of poems smoke cigarettes
and exchange glances as a shadow sharpens
and cuts the morning. Coffee warms their
hands. It is early still. In the tallest poem,
bullets and fireballs flicker in the reflection
of a lonely man’s face. In the poem, leaning
against a one-way sign, an out of work
actor climbs into a cannon and shoots
himself across the Manhattan sky.
In the poem about the fear of August,
a young widow sleeps naked in a waterless
bath, while in the poem that begun so well
but lost its way, a concert pianist becomes
invisible after a day at the beach.
All of the poems lower their heads, and step
out of the way, allowing a middle-aged
woman in a fur coat to shuffle past; her
face cast in bronze and pink; a hospital
bracelet dangling from her wrist.