For J.
I
At night the drawn blinds
are light blue instead of green
and hydrants galore give issue to much green water,
tumble and hum
with sometimes two in a tub,
with white linen towels or white tissue sprinkled with talcum
in whitewashed cottages where the jockeys are paddocked
five in a row,
in sight and sound of the depot . . .
And everywhere back of the innocent silk of the blinds
in the shotgun cottages, scented with Florida water,
the hoptoads devote some intervals to the comics,
absorbing the prat-fall with the cosmic projectile,
the villainous domino with the leopard-skin drawers . . .
But a listener hears,
if he is expectant and still,
the infinitesimal tick of filaments in light bulbs
springing out of position,
fifty-watt Mazdas giving up steady white ghosts.
And after long intervals — talk,
subdued exclamations!
But couldn’t distinguish surprise from indignation,
quit from will you?
Smelling hot oranges in the Loop of Chicago . . .
The Loop is the way the crow flies
between kids’ giggles and lighthearted cohabitation,
between jam sessions and bedrooms at the Blackstone
(with light bulbs that swing delightedly as you do,
somewhere between archdeacons and the Voodoo!)
But Electric Avenue stops for NoooooBODY! — who doesn’t believe
one number comes twice in two throws,
or thinks God’s ignorant of the chance He’s taking!
II
The Sunshine Special has deposited you under skies of pink tissue paper
which little girls’ scissors will cut into gap-toothed grins and triangular eyes.
The cutout sections, looped over telephone wires, will be irritably
brushed aside in the rush for entrances.
And you will stop short, coming out of the railroad depot
thinking you heard your name called,
which is thought-transference, because —
the face of your love is chalk-white!
She has taken poison.
The fire department has been called out to revive her.
Her dresses collected grass stains after soft-drink parlors,
and her brother’s picture’s
a sailor between Hula girls in Honolulu,
framed in forget-me-nots on the ivory bureau.
Her scent is from Liggett’s, in half-ounce bottles, the colors
of what the Mexicans call refrescos y helados,
vended between the deaths of bulls on Sundays.
She dies likewise eight times between sol y sombra
and is hauled by a team of horses across an arena,
but eight times revives and comes back plunging again,
to meet your banderillos with bloodshot eyes.
Her hands are like ice and she has called for you twice!
But at five o’clock in the Dutch-blue afternoon,
she is out of danger and you are out of Miami
with all the free pussy there is in a land of plenty!
Ah, but your silver victrola,
which talked of your losses before it was also lost,
which grieved for your grief before it was also grieved for —
heavy, heavy hangs over your head and your heart,
and whom will you meet on San Juan de Latrene to redeem it?
III
Any how now we stopped at a hoptoad’s heaven,
one scrub pine and clean sheets without any questions,
radios numbered as blackbirds in the king’s pie!
Something all the time going on in the place —
stud in the parlor,
pinochle on the back porch,
something suspiciously humming and rattling upstairs,
which Daisy explained
was a kind of electric contrivance
for curing inquisitive cats of their bad habits . . .
But to believe in luxury isn’t necessarily nor even probably to lack dynamism,
and lots of babies who’ve never been properly weaned from Hotel Statler room service
can still make sing, or make like magnificent singing, canaries in bedsprings,
being wired to transmit equally well as to receive
currents of that blue stuff
which is come of creation,
the doves of Aphrodite’s or anyone’s car!
IV
The sun makes up with them after a silly quarrel.
Under the feigned and profaned look of magazine cuties,
Meridians BOOMED!
Coo-coo!
Shag ass to breakfast!
The situation involves a poppy kimono, intermittently opened to cool off
Bob —
but more of them know than you would suspect of knowing
the faute-de-mieux convenience . . .
And evening makes a difference in a place.
Somebody buffs his shoes with a steady buff.
Somebody looks in a chiffonier for something
which turns out not to be there,
or if it is there, is not the right color or size,
or proves in some other respect an unpleasant surprise.
Somebody thinks he is quicker than somebody’s buddy who’s bigger
and heigh-ho,
off they both go
in the Black Maria!
Yes, evening makes a difference in a place
much like a drunkard’s poem before his blonde
calls — Waiter! Check! We’re leaving . . .
Bibulous sonnet, too deep for appreciation —
and bed’s ENORMOUS!
Big as a fire truck, rockets us to slumber,
hanging on brass-hinged ladders with faraway eyes . . .