Snake oil sales
were slow. So I hung
out my shingle on
a shadow.
Desk-drawer liquor
A dead man’s loan. Soon
chinless stoolies
slunk & doorjambed—
ratted
that she ain’t no
good, that she wears a watch
on both wrists. Too
many midnights.
Evidence mounting like butterflies
Still I made them informants
for phonies, phoned
to hear her breath.
She was faith
enough to believe.
She’s a peach. A pistol.
I waived my fee
I left my agency
Came home to rooms ran-
sacked, tossed
by invisible hands.
Hip flask. Blackjacked.
Swig,
mickey slip, slug.
I woke doubled & crossed
Drug, ferried
through whisky alleys
Bruisers, suicide doors
The crooked chief interrogated
me about her body
She’s no more mine, no eye
witness, nor alibi
No one will attest she ever
did exist.
I was her autumn guy
By the wharf was left
waterlogged & wise
My dogs dead
tired, I humped it
home, humming gumshoe blues.
I didn’t have a rat’s chance.
Soon as she walked in in
That skin of hers
violins began. You could half hear
The typewriters jabber
as she jawed on: fee, find, me,
poor, please.
Shadows & smiles, she was.
Strong scent of before-rain
Her pinstripe two-lane
legs, her blackmail menthol.
She had all the negatives
Hidden safe
& would not reveal the place.
Before you could say
denouement, I was on her case—
Slant hat, broad
back, my entrenched coat
Of fog. Fleabags,
neon blinds undrawn—
The foreshadows fell on her face.
All night I tailed, staked
the joint. Found
Her with the butler
playing patty-cake.
Baker’s man. She nurse
him like beer
Till dawn. Doozy.
Was from her woozy,
My eyes wet.
Binocular mist.
I took two to the chest
Was all
rain, her blurring face
Her snuffed, stubbed-out
lipstuck cigarette.
The band vamped,
sunlight leaving—sequined,
Delilah Redbone swung
her hardships & sang—
Sporting my lucky
hundred-proof cologne
I listened hard at the bar
as the houselights dimmed—
Rich widows passed matches
with messages in the flaps
Weary husbands with ring-
worn hands sweated
Like their drinks, getting up
the nerve to ask.
I tossed a few back
The band cranked, sharp,
trumpet neath a hat—
Glasses & dance
cards empty, ladies winked
For a light so often
—Say, mister—
You’d think you were
the election-year mayor
Handing out favors.
Every joe here
Named John or Jack
or Hey You or Doe—
My answer, mostly, No.
Another round & the band
blew its medley midnight
Husbands hugged
their mistresses tighter
And she scat till the moon
caught itself
In the trees like a balloon
let go by a child, crying,
At the county fair.
My saltwater
Shotglass. My flask
Full of lighter fluid.
The piano boogied twilight
She sang & swooned & the sun
started up
An argument with what was left
of the dark—
The swingshift stumbled out
The graveyard drug in thirsty
& worse. Delilah sang on
About hearts that break like high-note
glass—or jaws—
That break more than men
in the mob-run union.
The band beat louder
passing a hat, damping
Foreheads with uh-huhs
& handkerchiefs
While Miss Redbone sang:
Lord, I’m afraid
Whoa, so afraid
I done married Mud
& took on his name.
His diploma from Hard
Knocks College
Hung there askew.
His cologne—
Smelling salts—filled
the messy room.
The name on his lambskin
scrawled in Pig Latin.
No heat—
except what steamed
Between us—
his breath blew rings.
My uncomfortable
underthings.
My eyebrows
plucked apostrophes
Making him mine.
Like a heart my feet ached
after climbing the steep stairs
In skyscraper heels
to his semi-suite. His assistant—
Miss McGuffin—
buzzed me in.
I talked circles
round him, his bachelor’s
Degree in bourbon
& silence served
Him well. What
I gave him: The Soft
Sell. The Hard Luck Tale.
The Runaround. The Quick
Take. The Hayseed.
The Switcheroo. The Second Guess
& Third Degree.
The lights flickered
on & off, the street.
He lit another stogie—
I never did mind his cigars,
their peat, though most thought
They reeked
of horses in the field.
Honestly, that hint
of home is what
I’d missed—
He was biscuits
& figs, was sweet
potato pie cooling
On the sill. Suddenly,
the somewhere I had to be
Went away—
I even wanted to reveal
My real name.
Instead, sweated
in the cold.
Like an old lady
at the matinee
I popped a noisy mint
as if that would help me
Not breathe mist—
My threadbare fur.
My secondhand
Story. Still, for me
he’ll fall like Jericho’s walls—
You see, he still believed
in something—
Even if it was me,
his losing big-bet team.
I’ll quick cure
him of that.
I tried telling him
my maiden name was Trouble
But even that was too much
like a touch
Of perfume behind my ear,
my neck & knees,
That he needed to get near
Just to be sure…
His hair dark
as a sparrow’s tail
That soon I’ll sprinkle
with salt & grey
So he’ll never fly away.
For those few nights
we were husband & wife—
Mister & Missus
Smith was the name
we registered under,
laughing ourselves low.
Let the busybody bellboy stare.
I didn’t care—
all night Mister Smith’s arms
were long enough
to reach round me
& touch—to lift up
& threshold me
to the buckling bed.
There was no one else
in the joint,
it felt, just us knocking
the paint-by-numbers
pictures aslant, ordering up
whatever food they had—
some paper-bag gin—
I didn’t care—
pulled the pins
like a grenade’s
from my hair
& let the flowers
wilt behind my ear.
Let whisky weather
my throat
& still tomorrow I’ll sing—
Let the weather
spill its liquor
wherever it wants.
I’ll sink
to that. Who cares
what the world went on
doing—those few nights
& lies & sneaky-pete wine
that made us newlyweds
made sense—
Those nights the only rings
we owned
were those we left behind
from drinks sweating
on the warped wood,
our wobbly vanity.
Bruised like gin
stirred too quick
Ruining the tonic
I stumbled home
put on a steak eye-patch
& fixed me another drink
hoping this one would take
The way she never did.
On the rocks
& stiff. Alls
I got left—
A key to a safe
deposit that’s empty
& one lousey alias—
S.O.S. Mallone.
(My real name’s
A.K.A. Jones.
Leastwise
that’s what I been told.)
Hey buddy, welcome home—
Murphy bed like a booby
trap, springs shot
My mattress thin as the bills
I once stuffed it with.
I drink a lot
about my thinking problem—
Nightcap,
noontime nip—
She my unquit habit.
This roof with more
leaks than I
Could ever fix, buckets
of rusty rainwater I bend
Low to drink. Brimming over,
My good eye watched
all night the storm
Drown the street in worms
With her, guilty
was my only plea.
When we kiss, her leg kicks
up like a chorus line!
The next day what awaits: flat fizz,
an ache cured only by bitters.
Two eggs,
over queasy.
Chew fat. Spit
blood. Gargle peroxide. Repeat.
She’s pro
bono, a quid pro.
I’ve given, like gin,
her up, again.
Even my shadow
has me followed.
When we met, her first request:
Got a light?
I only had dark
so gave her that instead.
Once I looked rose-colored;
now I see only red.
Her cigarettes burn
along just one side:
Someone else thunk
bout her all the time.
On my door I hung a sign:
GONE WISHING. BACK IN 5.
Ashtray full of butts
& maybes.
The echo of her heels down the hall
to me means reveille.
Threatening rain
The boozy,
overdressed dame
with a voice to match
The unbent bootblack
The one-armed pickpocket
with a nose
for the horses
Informant shot in his tracks
Pullman porter
with a chemistry degree
A well-minxed martini
Last of the light
Too much shadow
around the eyes
Newshound nosing round
the place
Throat cut
like a phone line
An assignation
The asinine accomplice
Here comes the bribe
The day player
who flubs his line
The prizefighter’s
blackmail fall
Mousey majorette
at the used bookstore
who unbuttons her hair
& lets down her blouse
Misplaced lightning
Face full of smoke
Character actor
whose accent changes more
than a leading lady’s wardrobe
The once-over
The okie-doke
The moon a thumb-
print pressed
in the black police book
kept by the night
Put your hands
where I can see em
Cryptic telegram
Slow cigar ash
And Death, the well-
dressed doorman,
his pockets stuffed with cash.
Even his walking
stick was crooked.
He didn’t need it,
or me, he’d say—let me
know he kept us both
for show. His hands
clean as a cop’s whistle,
nails filed
to toothpicks. Slick—
he taught me
to kiss, & silence,
how to tell tons
just from the eyes.
His were ice
picks, raised,
or icebergs tearing
into the berth
of some Titanic.
Watch em sink.
He was never in between—
either gargantuan
or thin
as a lie. He sharpened
knives on other men’s spines.
He hated losing
even a dime, would bet
the farm, then steal
from the till. Weed em
& reap.
He treated me
like his money—took me
out only
when he needed something
& fast.
Even his toupee—
imported, real
human hair—was one-sided
& levitated
above his head like a lightbulb
burned dim.
No wonder when
that detective stumbled in—
smelling of catharsis
& cheap ennui,
begging to be
given an extra week
with his knees—
I wanted him like nobody’s
business. His
blown kiss.
Never laundered
like money, that dick’s suit
stayed rumpled like the pages
of a paperback dropped
in the tub, drowned, the end
you read first to find out
whodunit, never
mind why.
Armed like his teeth
Nervous as a thief
at the cop convention
A ballerina before
a buffet
He laughed loud
& overlong
At The Boss Man’s jokes—
again, the one about the senator
& the nun. Something
about bad habits…
His were spitting
& cursing, a fondness
For the edge of things:
towns, skirts, a drizzle
That seemed to fall
only when least fitting,
Or most. Love scenes
& holdup schemes.
He smoked for show,
kept the top dog’s highball
Full a ice like
chewed glass. Kept his own
Brass knuckles polished
by breath & sweat—
His walk favored his left
Ever since that incident
with the mayor’s wife
& two full flights
had gimped his right.
Squirrelly, he kept quiet & his eye
on me always—sideways
He watched me that summer
I made the swimming pool
My bedside table, the moon
my chaperone—
Was paid to see if my heart hurried
when I saw that detective
Slur & slink his way into the room.
But toss a few smiles, maybe a strut,
his way & that guard
Dog would turn lap dog—
he’d fetch & beg but never stay—
Knew neither would I.
The day I did split
my beau The Boss was out
Cold, KO’d by drink
Wearing my stocking
as a cap & snoring
The symphony in Z.
I stuffed my hatbox
full, left only perfume
Littering the room.
Despite the echo
between his ears, that flunky
heard me, the stairs creaky
As his bones. Don’t know why
That hired fist let me
walk, a head start, while
He & the night watched—
Just spat his shoes
till they shone
Like exclamation points,
said See youse
& wished me dead
& luck.
We undress shy
as a gun.
The mailman’s son, I am
nor snow, nor night, nor gloom.
Her eyelashes long
& false as an alarm.
He say, she say,
foreplay, amscray.
Her cocktail dress pours
over my bare floor.
Her feather boa
hissing yes.
Without her I am incomplete—
prehensible, licit, couth.
Wisdom this tooth
aching I want removed.
He loves me slow
as gin, then’s out
light-switch quick.
The moon’s burned-
out bulb in a blackened sky,
I lie in the dark & want
his name to be mine—
or to be alone—
Wish I could walk out
this overheated railroad flat
& everyone on the street
knew me, home, & he’d wake
in bed alone & wonder
where I’d gone. Instead,
his unsteady snore—
calling the hogs, sawing.
Sleep, for now, is almost
enough—want it to start
in my toes & tingle
upward, then explode
behind my eyes, closed—
Said start down in my toes
& explode behind
eyes now closed
like the pawnshop
across the street, its sign
blaring all night what
only daylight
can buy. Up
& down the block
you can hear the dogs talk—
never us—till the pigeons
pace the ledge
outside my bedroom & strut
like the painted girls down
on Twilight Avenue,
moan the morning blue.
His fingers such a bad hand
of five-card
draw: trade
em all in & still
nothing. Same
crumby pair.
Thinking it was the wind
I let him, knocking, in
with a shush so’s he wouldn’t wake
the bruiser sleeping it off
in the other room. Half
of me hoped
to be caught, fought
over for once.
No dice—
just that caller, no one’s
gentleman, soaked
by rain or baptism
or bathtub gin—he sat
there in the dark that
dingied the room,
night a suit
of clothes, or cards,
he never quite fit.
Begged me like a bookie
for a second chance—
or least his money back.
Well bitten, his hands shook
in anticipation, thinking
this time at rummy he’ll win—
discarding, declaring Gin.
Forgive me, then,
for reaching out
in the matchbook twilight—
strike here, close
cover before—
to better see him, to warm
his hands with mine & twine
together fingers one more time
before he went out
the way he came,
pockets still flat, all
bets off.
Like drink,
there’s never enough,
he thinks, of me around
in this dry
blue-law town.
In the growing light
I watched him like a house
on fire—helpless
to stop—going up
the hill,
he walked slow
as a man shouldering ice
he’s cut himself
to sell, careful,
before it melts.
Some tripped silent alarm
I empty round
after round as if at the bar
Hands trembling
like a suspension bridge
This bank heist gone
bad as a marriage.
Radio requesting backup
Me sweating bullets,
endless rounds
Outside, a sandwich board
hawking God
Shotgun smuggled
past security in a flower box
Black mask I can’t see
squat out of.
Lady, let’s slow drag
as the sirens sound closer
Well-paid police dog
on my tail—
Soon we’ll be tropic, taking
baths in getaway green
Letting our skin ripen
& sweeten
The nights crisp
as a banknote Ben Franklin—
Put your hands
where we can see em
Hear the hounds
grow nearer, growl
Outside, the getaway car
leaking gas, tires shot
The megaphone hollering halt
My stethoscope cold
against the vault’s locked heart
My car, that dinosaur,
runs on memories
& other things older
than the fossil fuels I tell
the gas jockey to fill er
up with. I toss him
a few bits for his time
& hope he won’t recognize me
& call the authorities—
whosoever they may be.
Before the dust
from my bald treads
settles, before he can wipe
the grease from his hands,
my skinny dime’s ringing up
the solicitous sheriff
who rallies the posse.
My front-page face
lines every jailbird
& stool pigeon’s cage.
I look dead
for my age—
or bout to be
if my shadow
ever catches up to me.
If they nab me I hope
like a catfish my whiskers
will spur their hands, turn
them numb
& like resignation I’ll
give them the slip, swimming
into the dark, away.
More likely I’ll end up
on someone’s table
fileted & splayed.
Son, when you’re drug
from the drink
they recognize you
by your tattoos—
I have none so I’ll look
like everyone—
after all, a while,
we all smile
like a skull.
Searchlights gander
the city, I was convinced
looking for me. Convict
of nothing, believer
in the unsteady maps
of stars—I watched red-
nose regulars steam
themselves alive, downing
boilermakers by the bucket.
I tossed em back
myself like smallish fish
or dead soldiers—sent
out to sea, lit—lining
the corner table,
my usual.
Bartender opened me
like a church key
& I spilled everything—
her hair, her silent
offscreen kisses, all
but her real name
which everyone already knew
by number. Her legs long
like a gossip
column. Early
edition. The lobster shift.
Here at The Alibi
it’s always late, and whenever
the phone rings
no one’s in. It never
rings for me…
I see now that thinking
Joe over there’s a regular
meant I was one too—that behind
the bar was a mirror
for a reason, not just
to make sure
it wadn’t hunting season.
I’m tired of the city
telling me what it needs
isn’t me—that mist is more
necessary to the picture
than I am. Pay
the man. Head outside
where the dark gathers round
fires built in the empty
barrel of the moon, men holding
their palms to its light
as if warmth. One hand
flint, the other
a stone—tonight I’ll wander home
to sleep a few
hundred years & hope
her poison kiss might
slay me at last awake.
Born on a showboat
headed upriver, he thought
the world a gamble
& the moon a gin-
soaked ice cube,
whole month
of melting. He looked a lot
like money, just not
much of it—thread-
bare, worn down
by use—stamped
by numbers & years,
a library book
long overdue. Heavy fines.
You hated to find
yourself beneath
his oil-slick eyes—
the sweats would start
to overtake you
& you’d hitch a ride
on the potty train.
All aboard.
Wearing a splint
like a pinky ring,
he used a toothpick
like a cigarette—
collected guns
& grenades, their rings
long since yanked to take
someone’s hand
like a bride.
Once he’s been paid
you can’t hide—
he’ll find you & like
a jukebox fed a fistful
of change, plays his hits
without stopping,
maybe only to scratch.
Crow’s feet.
Have heard him called
a hundred things—
Sleep Stealer,
Death’s Little Helper,
Dr. Dirt,
Mr. Red,
He-who-liketh-blood-
on-the-Outside-
Not-In,
The Professor,
The Bumpman,
St. Peter,
Jim Crow,
John Doe—
just never
late for dinner.
No wonder
when he wandered
into Mojo Mike’s—where I
was drinking whisky with a little
hot tea tossed in
to honey my throat—I thought
I was done. I skipped out
of there like a steak
done rare, wanting
no more blood
to spill from my side—
headed to the head
to hide.
Widow’s peak.
This is it,
I thought. So
long. Sayonara,
see ya,
no more, farewell,
friends, it’s been swell—
ciao, air kiss,
adios amighost—
from now on my nom
de plume
is Toast.
Hereafter, hello.
Raven-haired.
He sat on down
& ordered—who knew
he ate at all, or liked the way
the food here was hot enough
to scar the roof
of your mouth & they let you
alone. The waitress could sense
whether you needed a menu
or carried one in your head
besides a to-do list:
Breathe, breathe,
patty melt, extra cheese.
Vinegar greens.
Through the bathroom door
that never quite closed,
while my stomach, half-
boiled, took a stab
at taps,
I watched him throw back
short ribs & anti-freeze,
drown his insides,
tip well & leave.
From the bathroom, trying
not to breathe,
I thanked my stars
& knew if he had found me
like money
nothing could have saved me—
no gin, nor amen.
Like a suicide the band was
jumping, hitting high
then low, leaving
nothing but sweat
on the stand. I showed up
to the demimonde masquerade
disguised as myself
& no one recognized me.
My monkey suit still fit
better than I did—
I stuck out sideways
like my bow tie. In knots
over her quitting me,
I had to bogart
this 13th Annual
Bête Noire Ball—
Had some frail
on my arm (part
of my disguise), stars
shooting cross her eyes
from getting an invite—
but inside I was stag,
all solo. My eyes
watched my back
& the front door for
She-who-didn’t-need-me
to enter. Incognito,
alleged, I waited
to get close or just
stare her from afar,
but that’s, of course, par.
On cue she enters,
her eyes 8-balls—dark
& darting & in the end
a prize. Behind them
is where I wanted to be.
At her side hung some guy
far wiser than me,
lipstick smearing
his cheek dark
as a bruise. She glides
the room like a dirigible
& I ain’t able
to look away—burns
me up the way that gangster
orders her around
like a drink. Her twirled
pearls. Cloven shoes.
The police, paid off
by pastries, held up the walls
while all over the room
pomade waved like a beauty-pageant
winner right after.
I had wanted to save her
like money, then hide
her away, a pearl
under an oyster’s tongue.
That night, awkward,
cumberbound, I pretended
to chat like the rest
of the extras—moved uneasy
in the crowd as a mistress
at her man’s funeral,
welcomed by no one,
yet known.
Among these big fish
& wigs, among lobster bibs
& caviar thingamajigs
I felt like a crawdad
caught out of water, peeled
but quick. Puny me missed
them fish-sandwich women
back home who’d warm
your side & only wanted
some time, a little talk.
Here every painting hides
a million bucks, or none—deeds
locked in a safe—& the ladies’
fingers have enough rocks
to start a garden, a quarry
no chain gang could break.
Even in this
thief’s paradise there was little
I wanted: her
smooth hands in mine
dancing slow for a time.
The rest was preface.
After taking a whole roll
of film with my boutonniere,
I had downed enough courage
to cross the room & brush by her
like a pickpocket, stealing
a glance that telegraphed
Meet me in 5.
She did, for old times,
or one last—
As my misplaced date
hovered by the food
& ate with her hands
& eyes, we snuck out
by the pool. I wonder
if it, too, was pulled
by the moon.
Around us, frost.
She shivered in her
X-ray dress
so I gave her my jacket,
price tag still in it.
Over time we’d learned
to skip the weather
& howdy & the how-
could-yous—
To forego the fight entirely
& head, like the heavyweight
finally defeated, to the silence
& bruise & antiseptic
of after. There,
while shadows gathered
in the deep end
I could not swim,
we kissed & my bow tie
turned a whirligig, lifted
me high among the trees
till I could see
how far I’d fall, that between us
air was all
we had left. My eyes oysters
pried open—
shucks.
Her pearlies
a piano I almost forgot
how to play, never got
practice enough.
Didn’t want
to let go her hand & sink
back into the blue
but knew I had to. No more
could we disappear
into the dark like a tooth
left in a glass
of cola, or the moon
that, even unseen,
still tugged at us,
sick dentist. Still
we danced awhile
at the lip of the pool, slow
dragging like a cigar
till she stole like thunder
back inside
to her life of smiling
when he said to, of betting
against her own chances.
I counted Mississippis
to make sure I didn’t follow
too close or brave
lightning twice,
then headed inside
where the party began
breaking things
& up—the drummer taking
down his trap, the bass again
silent, the saxophonist splitting
apart his horn
shaped like a question mark.
We are all
built to be done, remarked
no one.
After confetti, we’ll sweep on
home separately
to sleep like enemies:
lightly, dreaming only
of each other’s loaded arms.
Leaving the coffin-cold
theater in winter
Single-barrel moon
aimed above us
He escorted & told me
lies I wanted
To warm my ears
The moon’s lazy eye
razored shut
The two of us
fought that hawk
Walking through wind
across a world that once
Seemed so flat I feared
I might could fall off—
Now, Clare, every horizon
got another behind it
Least that’s what
Mama would say—Just you wait—
But I hightailed it north
& changed my name.
Beneath the shrapnel sky
I wanted to run
From here to the train
& buy me a ticket one way—
I’m tired of eviction
The radio’s same station
Playing woe & blues
Said tired of eviction
The radio’s same station
Arguing whose man is whose.
I want some diesel bound
south, making all stops—
No more neighbor’s
whooping cough
No more leaky
solos from the faucets
Or landlords who pinch,
swapping winks for late rent.
Graveyard-shift moon
that turns men mad—
Let me trade fire
escape for front porch
Let me ride
sunset down to where
Train’s the only whistle
& a girl don’t got to cry
to keep herself company
Where moonshine ain’t just sky
& you can catch catfish
Sure as a man—bearded, polite—
already fixed up & fried.
Young men here guzzle
& dream of becoming drunks
& regulars, the drunks
here dream of becoming
young. I wait
for her one hour, promise
myself no more, then wait
half hour over.
As I’m pretending
to don my fedora, some hood
arrives to tell me she ain’t
coming, never, no matter
& I better quit callin.
Pats his pistol-padded side.
I wish that I was a wish,
that rubbing this bottle—
gin’s djinni—would give me
more than mist.
The stooge suggests
I find another date,
to learn a place
where the smoke don’t stain you
& the glasses wash up new.
Like fatback
his knuckles crack.
I excuse myself to the head,
looking for an escape hatch—
cursing her name, planning
never to forget her.
She gets under
& infiltrates, she’s foreign
intelligence…
No dice. Windows sealed
by the past & paint—
Dreaming of a back way
I read some last words
on the wall, faint—
Don’t sleep
With a gangster
Or his wife. Just don’t.
Nor a waitress,
some wise guy retorts.
Then something I don’t
remember penning—
Reports of my death are
greatly anticipated—
but it’s my hand sure
as shooting.
Stripped, de-
briefed,
cowed, found
out, frisked,
confessed, pled,
tired, treed,
left for dead
& for good, forgot—
lurched, lost,
scalded, belted, shook,
rooked, finked, ratted
out & on—
withdrawn, strapped,
harried, pursued, deluded,
deluged—
bit by dogs
hounding my heels—
jilted, jinxed,
downed, fawned
over, ferreted,
sated & abetted, sent
into the lion’s
living room—
parlayed, parlor-
tricked, sicced
on, surrendered—
quailed, quitted, shown
the door, the boot, given
the bum’s rush,
the lady’s luck—
botched, black-
listed, decked, sawed
in half, duped,
dried out, dusted
off, sobered, handed
my hat, running out
of excuses & room—
I came clean.
Forgive me.
As in the dream when you turn
to face them that chase you
up the endless stairs
I spun
& found no one.
Turns out all
that hunted me
was me—haunted
by what I believed
she to be. So I gave up
some green, flashed
a few fins around town,
greased
the underworld’s
squeaky wheels
& got let off free. Left
to my own devices—
which are few,
& idiot-proof.
She was permanent yet
faded, a prison
tattoo—I once thought
like that serum
she’d be true
but I know now
I was wrong as a sweater
on a sheepdog.
Banging out a symphony
in a typewriter key, I didn’t hear
My door creak open, only
her Ah-hum & perfume
My knocking knees
When, uninvited, she sat
herself down. Crossed
Her legs like the county line
& I, some boot-
legger driven far
For such strong lightning.
She leaned & asked
once more could I find—
A friend? her man?
something so valuable
She could not say?
Anythin,
was once my answer—
Had spent off-meter hours,
hundreds, snooping for her
Working under the cover—
Was left with only
a fake-mustache rash
& some prop glasses
without glass.
My heart twin
cufflinks then.
Tonight, her eyes welling
over like an oil rig,
I let my mind, like
a housewife, or eye, wander:
August again
& I eleven, filled with Sunday
& early supper—
hummocked, happy.
How the sycamores sang,
the cicadas.
This is long before
gunfire, before the Colt
& rope & a river
I am still swimming.
Long before I arrived
our starved city, before derringer days
& nights even darker for all
the streetlights…
Her hands tapped
an impatient Morse, fanned
Two lace gloves. Well?
Her veil smile.
Adam’s-apple bob. Ceiling-fan swirl.
I thanked her for
her time, then sent her
Away packing, teetering
on unsheathed stilettos.
Her kisses tender, a resignation—
I may be back
to her like an undertaker
Whose scent no one can shake—
For now I’ll ignore the lack
of knocking, the quiet
Except for wind
& tin-roof rain,
The phone’s pleading ring.
The city at last let me
leave it—streetlights
just on—no sunset—
the scent
of laundry rising up
from beneath a grate,
starched by hands
unseen—Mama’s,
I imagine. I have had
it all, enough
of water cold & clogged—
have a mind, half,
to walk these weedy blocks
to the station where a midnight
train tugged me
nine months back. I step
careful, avoiding the cracks.
Everywhere,
late-summer hum—
no crickets, just the smack
& holler of children playing
stickball—no
mound, no sliding,
no nothing but beans
& pork, asphalt & fence, far
as I can see. Stoop talk.
You can keep your cans,
kick em all day—
I can taste already
Mama’s tomatoes coming up
from the earth like a mummy
—slow, heavy, hungry—
in the B movie I always
end up in, playing
Screaming Girl, Secretary,
or Victim #2. I always did feel
sorry for that man wrapped up
in his past, made awake
by grave robbers as if newlywed
neighbors. How d’you do?
The name’s Clarice—
though down home everyone knows
to call me Reece & not
to bother phoning, just
drop on by. The train lurches
the station—all points south—
till I am a star like all the others
in sky—winking, flashing strings
of pearls like citified words—
flickering like the Luckies
I will hide, buried
with pride & told you sos
beneath our unscreened porch.
