PHONE CALL FROM THE PAST

Too many years have passed
for easy calculation.
Borrow ten from the left
column, subtract, and shake
your head in startled disbelief.

The conversation lurches
from mundane to awkward,
rights its feet, treads close
to danger, retreats, scrambles
to find firm foothold.

Behind the polite questions
lurk the real ones:
    Where have you been?
    Where are you now?
    Who are you now?
    Why have you called?
    No really. Why have you called?

THE WISE MEN COME TO BETHLEHEM

Surprised?  Yes.
But not surprised at Herod, that camel brain.
We figured him for the petty tyrant
most kings turn out to be.
Always the same, their outward show
-- haughty, grand, fully in command --
but underneath they tremble, shake at shadows,
see enemies behind each post and pillar.
"I would worship the new king,"
said Herod.
Hah!

No, what stunned us was this . . .
that our search should lead us here,
to wretched, barren Bethlehem.
What kind of king could be birthed
in this backwater burg?
There must be some mistake.
One last try?  Oh very well.
Let's ask around.  "Hey, you there.
We're looking for a child.  Tell us,
is there a new-born in this God-forsaken town?"

CHRISTMAS LESSON

Other children had fathers
who, as Christmas approached,
would herd them into the car, drive
them to the woods, saw down
a perfectly shaped evergreen,
tie it fast to the roof, and
lead them in a chorus of "Jingle
Bells" all the way home
where their mothers would
be waiting for them with
steaming cups of hot chocolate
with tiny marshmallows
floating merrily on the surface.

At least that's the impression
I got from the pages of Jack and Jill.

I, on the other hand, had
a father who taught
me the meaning of irony
as, observing the craziness
of harried holiday shoppers,
plodding cheerlessly from store to store,
he would chant, with cocked eyebrow,
his annual litany:
"Christmas comes but once a year
and when it comes, it brings good cheer."

My mother did not think
it was funny.

AGE OF ABSURDITY

The answering machine is
blinking.

The recorded woman's voice informs me that the
company

it represents has a line of many fine
products

available for purchase during the holiday
season.

It goes on to say that
unfortunately

all their sales agents are
busy

at the moment talking to other
customers

but I have the opportunity to
learn

about their line of many fine
products

by either staying on the
line

or, if I prefer, by calling
642-932-4655.

YOUR ADVENTURE

If you were twelve and Ronnie
ran over from his place yelling
there's been a big pile-up down
at the bridge, you would jump on your

bike and ride like a bat out of you
know where just like I did that
summer Saturday back in ‘53.
You'd see the tire marks and

you'd imagine hearing the screams
from the passengers when they
realized they were going
to smash head-on into the dump

truck coming around the curve.
You wouldn't be surprised to
see a crowd of people standing
around the ambulance but

you would be surprised to
see the driver of what was left of
the ‘49 Mercury lurching around,
hardly hurt, saying it isn't his

fault goddamit that everybody
in the car is dead he'd only
had a coupla beers so stop
lookin' at him like he's some

common criminal. You'd see the
police car pull up and a cop
would come over and say you
kids beat it so you'd get back on

your bikes and head home
where your mother would
be standing on the porch
with her hands on her

hips and giving you that look of
hers and she'd say where've
you been, what were you
and Ronnie up to and
you'd both say "Nuthin."

AT CANA

Must you really go? So soon?
Of course, I understand. Your
mother tells me you are . . .
what did she say . . . impetuous. Yes.
I myself . . . you may not believe
it . . . was once much like you,
though I would have called
it . . . restless, I suppose.
It's the way of youth to want . . .

And, to tell the truth,
my daughter over there,
the bride, so flushed with
happiness . . . at least I hope
it's that . . . I do wonder if she
will be content with . . .

Oh yes, her husband will
provide. I've seen to that.
He is steady, something
of a plodder, truth to tell.
Just between the two of us,
she once confided to her
mother that she thought you . .

But I'm keeping you. Forgive
my going on like this.
It must be the wine.

WHAT THE WIDOWED KNOW

We met that day on the job,
traveling together with time to

talk, gave, as is the custom,
the briefest of biographies

-- how does one, after all,
condense a lifetime into five

minutes or thereabouts --
and then fell silent. She, or

maybe I, noted that the day
was unseasonably warm which

reminded her, she said, how much
this time of year was treasured

by her husband. He couldn't wait
to hit the golf course she said

and laughed at something she
remembered. She did not tell

me what or why.
I understood.

HEROINE

The woman brings the boy
to the Bookmobile. I'm guessing
he is ten or eleven. Their
height and weight are similar.
He cannot walk, cannot stand.
She stands behind, her arms
around his waist. When I ask
if I can help, her smile is serene.
She tells me she can manage.

She lifts, hoisting him step
by step up the steps. She
sets him on the floor. He can
not or will not speak. I do
not know if his unblinking
stare is anger or frustration
or anything at all. I do not,
dare not, ask. She scans the
shelves and once or twice
coos, "We'll like this one,
won't we?" Her selections made,
she lugs him down and out while
I stand and watch, helpless.

I believe she can manage.

I have no idea how she can.

GRAVEYARD

The shuttered church sits just off the road,
a narrow track through the remotest
part of this valley.

Forty or so simple stones testify to
a century and a half of more
or less loyal Lutherans with

names from Germany. Some one
still cares. The grass is clipped
to three inch height, the metal

hinges of the gate well-oiled.
At the far end, just outside
the fence, stands a solitary stone,

shaded by the April blossoms
of a Japanese cherry tree. It
bears a name unlike the rest,

contains two dates that span
four decades. There is one word
more: "Mother." So was there

sin or something saintly that
deserved this separation, this
exclusivity? I do not, can not

know, can only wonder who and
what and why, can only hope she
knew her child or children

loved her.

ANDREW WYETH'S HELGA COLLECTION

It had made a small sensation,
an exhibition at the National
Gallery, a collection of
nudes that featured a woman
"friend" of the artist, painted with
obvious appreciation of her
voluptuous breasts. The crowds
that flocked to see what
he had wrought came to
learn what all the fuss was.
They murmured their own
appreciation at his skill
and obvious devotion.
This was love committed to
canvas. Anyone could see it.

My own enjoyment conjoined
an equal measure of seeing
art and overhearing
comments. Some were
sophisticated. Some were not.
A man and woman next to me,
in their seventies at least,
seemed especially enthralled.
Close enough to hear his
whisper, I caught:
"Yours are nicer."
To my delight
she giggled, giggled
like a school girl. "Oh, go on,"
she said. "Oh you."

AT THE RECYCLING CENTER

Here is where we bring
our offerings
newspapers read and unread
Pepsi cans
old tax returns shredded
cheery yellow boxes
that once held Cheerios

We bring them solemnly
like sinners bring their sins
and lay them on the altar
hoping for
for immolation
for transformation
into something good and clean and useful

WHAT'S IN A NAME

We'd come from different places,
different worlds almost, and met
that summer of ‘66 between
terms and worked side by side.
He said my name was strange,

wondered where it came from.
Gladly, with a smidge
of semi-sinful pride,
I took him on a tour
of my ancestral tree,

then stopped. I need to be
polite, I thought, and with
no more thought than
that asked him about
his. He gave a sort of snort

and in a voice of laughter,
marred by just a touch
of bile, told me that his
name was given by the man
who owned his great grandparents.

I felt my face flush red.
I know I turned away
but can't remember what I
said. I hope I didn't speak.
I hope there was an eloquence

of silence.

PROJECT

I could, if I wanted,
create a new mythology.
Maybe that's what the world

needs, is desperately longing
for, a pantheon of deities that
has relevance for Now. So, for

example, how about a god
of electronics? You'll
pray to Him/Her/It when your

Ipod is on the fritz. You
can buy electronic votive
candles at Best Buy to

assist your devotions. Not all
gods will be good ones. Baseball
players will need to placate

Erroneous, the deity who causes
shortstops' fingers to fumble
an easy ground ball. The

possibilities are almost
endless and will require more time
and thought than I have available

at the moment.

SEPTEMBER SOLILIQUY

Sunday afternoon around four or so,
September's sun begins the long slide down from
the page of the novel I'm about two thirds through
and I'm wondering why even though I don't
much like it, I will slog on through
to the end.

                 Here on the backyard bench
I look across to the neighbors'
driveway and watch their SUV pull up to
the house, everybody pile out, dogs
included, making indistinguishable
noises, probably about where they've
been, what they've done.

                                            And it occurs
to me that sitting with a book in my hands
is something I've done much too much,
that my mother was right when, long
ago, I overheard her tell her sister,
"he always has his nose in a book."
She said it bewilderdly, I imagine.

                                                    Now
I am a bit that way myself, bewildered.
It's not what you'd call a moral failure. It's
not a flaw of character, at least I hope not.
It's more a secret sadness, a sense
that other people do so much more
interesting things on Sunday afternoons.

MOLLY

Her twisted body sentenced her
to wheelchair and bed
but could not exile delight.

My visits, few enough, it's true,
were welcomed as if she really
did remember who I was.

What I learned about her was
sketchy, episodic, told
in bursts like a four-year-old.

Talking cost her effort, her
voice raspy, her face red.
She preferred talking to listening.

It was her chance to shine,
to be someone of consequence.
I learned to listen.

She guided me into
and through the fifty years of
her contracted world.

I found, to my surprise,
a place absent of complaint
or fear or sulk or rage.

And when, about to go, I'd
say, each time, would you like
a prayer? Her face lit up.

I'd say a line, "Our Father
who art . . ." and
wait to hear her echo.

Then, half-way through,
remembering, she'd race ahead
to "trespass against us."

I wondered what she knew of
trespass, hers or others, what
need she had of forgiveness.

And then we came to what
I still remember most.
Her eyes squeezed shut,

Her fervency fervent,
she prayed ". . . and lead
us into temptation. Amen."

And I wondered if, maybe,
her version made
as much sense as the original.

AT THE MOVIES

They sit in darkness,
some in ones, more in twos,
only a few in threes.
They do not commune unless
you count popcorn and sugar.
They watch the screen, wordless
as anchorites. Afterwards they
do not pass the peace
nor meet each other's eyes
as if they had all seen or done
something shameful, unspeakable.

Once, years ago, during "On the
Beach," I heard a woman's sobs
go on and on. At the end of it
we all stayed in our seats
till she left. We spaced apart
our own leave-takings, going out
as if leaving a confessional,
unforgiven, unshriven.






[NOTE: No entries for the next two weeks -- on vacation in New England]

RETROSPECTIVE

        "Were not our hearts burning within us
        while he was talking to us on the road?"
                    -- Luke 24:32

-- You know, Cleopas, I really did think there was
    something . . .  well . . . compelling . . .

Yes, yes. How when we rounded that last bend
    and the setting sun fell full on his face
    . . . an illumination . . .

-- Oh well, yes, I suppose. I was thinking more
    of the way he bent toward us as he
    spoke, almost prayerful in earnestness and . . .

Prayerful?  No, no, surely not! He exuded strength,
    authority. He told, not asked. He commanded,
    he . . .

-- How can you say that? He came to us gently,
    with questions. Don't you remember how he . . .

Ah yes! Questions. Each one designed to reveal
    the power he alone wills to wield.

-- So then, my astute friend, why did you not
    see and say who he was just then?

I almost did, I think.

-- Almost did? Amost did? You were as blind as I,
    and well you know it.

We saw him different. That's all.

-- We always have.

And maybe always will.
  

DILEMMA

Someone once told me that whenever he hears a siren he pauses for a few moments and offers a prayer in which he calls to Heaven's attention the emergency situation and solicits divine protection of behalf of whomever the vehicle is heading for as well as the driver of said vehicle (or vehicles as the case may be) which struck me as an admirable thing to do and so tried it a few times myself wondering if it did any good for the people involved or if it merely made me feel virtuous and also if in the case of a police car chasing a perpetrator I should pray for his escape or his capture (or hers as the case may be).

THE HOUSE

The house they moved to when
he was two sat at the top
of a hill and was called,
he later learned, the Temperance
House. Years back it had been
an inn whose owner found Jesus
and threw out all his
bottles of booze to the chagrin
no doubt of his formerly
pie-eyed patrons.

At three the house cribbed
a sister. At four he and she caught
whooping cough but survived.

There were more rooms than
they had things to put in
and he was told never to go up
to the fourth floor. He did not
ask why not. He was not
at the why-not stage (that came
later) but one winter afternoon
he climbed the cold back
stairs and looked at the empty
floors and discolored walls
and shadows in the corners
and began to believe in ghosts.

NOMINATION

I propose an award:
    "Most Unnecessary invention of . . ."
No, change that to:
    "Stupidest Invention of the Modern Era."

I also have a nomination:
The Leaf Blower.

Yes, its roar is irksome
and yes, it gobbles fossils;
that merely makes it a pollutant,
not a stupidity.

But if you've ever spent a sunny afternoon raking golden contributions from backyard maples into a hip-high pile and then thrown yourself backwards into its feathery embrace . . .

well, then you understand.

CATHERINE

It was a pleasant enough place
as nursing homes go,
well-lighted, clean, almost cheerful.
They'd told me she was blind
and so I wondered
why she said on my first visit:
"Isn't this a pleasant room?"

Her husband lay in the other bed.
"Say hello to the new pastor, Doot,"
and then in a whisper
"He never talked much.
It's been hard on him
since they took his leg.
Diabetes, you know. Just like me.
People think it must
be hard for me, stuck in this bed,
but I have memories,
so many, such good ones.
I remember . . ."

And off we would go,
to people and places
I'd never seen or gone.
She was a cheerful guide,
taking my hand and leading me
back through the hallways of her life
where we paused
to peer in rooms
and smile or laugh
at ironies and pomposities.
There were, of course, sad tales too.
We honored them with silence.

I wish I had told her
how she blessed me.

LEAVE TAKING

Even then, at the unseasoned age
of seven, he thought it odd
his father had named the fox
terrier Lassie. He thought only
collies should be called Lassie.

She's smart as a whip his father
said. He had taught her to roll
over, play dead and jump through
his arms formed into a circle.

They moved that summer and
had to sell some things because
the new house was smaller.
He went with his father to
the auction barn with a truck load
of stuff his father said they
didn't really need anyway.

Why are we taking Lassie
he said but his father didn't
answer. They left her with
the old sofa and some chairs.
He didn't cry because his
father said you're too
old for that.

BETHSAIDA

"Jesus said to him . . . ‘Do you want to be made well?'"

                             -- John 5:6

When he approached, I supposed
he was just another up-country
rube, come to the big city to gawk,
then go back home and tell them
all how wonderful and terrible
the trip had been . . . "You wouldn't
believe the poor beggars I saw spread
out around a pool of water they actually
believed could heal them" . . . so when
he asked his question I had to
choke back the bitter laugh rising
in my throat. What did he think --
that I came here day after day
because I enjoyed the view?

It was his look that changed everything.
It was . . . how shall I put it? . . .
intense. Yes, but more than that
. . . compelling. It compelled me
to say how and why I was the way
I was, still cramped down with
sickness and self-loathing.
I made my usual excuse and saw
at once he knew the truth
of it . . . that I feared more
than anything to do what
he ordered me to do . . . get up
and walk . . . stand up and make
my way into life.

I got up. I walked.

SEED PACKET

The picture on the front
tells you what you will get if you
drop the contents in the soil,
water and weed when necessary,
then wait. You will, in time,
have a cucumber just like
the picture on the front.

When you are a parent
you go about it much the same.
You plant, you feed, you cultivate.
It's harder though. There's more
at stake. For everyone. And there
are no pictures on the front.

ELEGY FOR AN OLDSMOBILE

They don't make them anymore
and when, yesterday, he drove
it to town as a trade-in he felt
like a sentimental old fool,
remembering the rites
of passage the green
machine had witnessed . . .
more . . . been part of --

his daughter's first time
behind the wheel as she
lurched them through the parking
lot at Sears, the ride home from
the hospital giddy with relief
that the doctor had said
"remission," the drive home from
the cemetery eight months later.

Before he walked away he placed
his hand on the hood and willed
himself to recall laughter
and remembered the day they
picked up the puppy at the shelter,
it's excitement so uncontrollable
it peed all over his shoes. He
drove them home barefoot and happy.

Good-bye he said aloud and looked
around quickly to make sure
nobody saw or heard.

UNSINGABLE

Why does no one write poems
about traffic? Is the subject

too prosaic, too boring, unworthy
of artistic expression? Or is it

(as I suspect) because the dread
that inhabits us on the highway

encased as we are in
wheeled boxes of steel and

glass trying to keep ourselves
inured to the possibility of being

hurled into oblivion by the semis
on I-81 is too frightening to

comtemplate even by the most
daring of soul searchers?

ANTIETAM BATTLEFIELD

We drive around, stop,
get out, read the markers,
scan the hills, soak in stillness
invaded only by bird arias.
At Burnsides Bridge I get goofy,
become a Union soldier, grab
my 14 year old stepson,
pretend to stab him, throw
him off the bridge into the water.
He laughs a little, so do I,
but it feels foolish and forced,
unworthy of the place,
where it is said the creek
ran red with blood.

DEFERMENT

We made a tape recording
when she was seven or eight.
We'd memorized "Casey
at the Bat." We decided
to do it with her saying the
first two lines then me saying
the next two and so on. It
went well. We had to turn
off the recorder only once
or twice. If you'd like to
hear it, I can go get . . .

Sure, I understand.
It's getting late.

Let me just say what amazed
me was how she imitated
the way I said it when we
were learning it and then
at some places added her own
unique touch like when she
says "a sneer curled Casey's
lip" and made the p at
the end of "lip" pop like a
cork flying off a bottle of
champagne. Or the . . .

Yes, yes. Of course.
Maybe the next time you stop by.

WHAT CHILDREN REMEMBER

"Children remember departures from the norm, breaks in the routine, disruptions."

Mother was having one of her "spells."
I was old enough to know it meant
she was somehow sick but not enough
to wonder or to ask. I knew
that's why I'd come to stay awhile
with Ruth, my aunt, and Uncle Roy
and their four girls. All but the oldest,
Ellen, would perch, before we went to bed,
like birds on branches, listening to the stories
he concocted every night. I knew
they weren't true, but didn't care.
He made us laugh, then shiver. I could tell he
enjoyed when we would beg for just one more.
That's all tonight, he'd say and whisk us off to bed.
I can't remember that I worried.
That came later.

CIRCA 1953

There was a room in Danny's house
they called the junk room. His
mother said we could clear
a space for an old mattress so we
could practice the holds we'd seen
the wrestlers use on television:
head locks, full nelsons, toe holds.
We imagined ourselves in a crowd-
filled arena with cigar and cigarette
smoke churning up to the rafters.
We'd pretend to be in pain when
caught in a Japanese key lock,
screaming our agony convincingly.
Danny said they got the mattress
because his aunt who had cancer
died on it so her family threw
it out but it was okay because
cancer wasn't contagious. Really.
I said I know it isn't but how
about we go outside now and
play football.

TILLIE

The youngest and last of her clan
(there were eleven)
she lived alone in the place
that once housed them all.
She invented a word for the herd
of nieces and nephews who'd
mostly moved away -- niblings --
and dead-panned it at you
to see if you had a sense of humor.
Thirty years after she bought it
new she was still driving
her bright blue Fairlane that
had once made everybody talk.
She wore her religion lightly
like a spring jacket
but on one of my visits said
that when she died she wanted
her favorite niece to sing
You Can Have the Whole World
But Give Me Jesus.
I said if I was still around
I'd see to it.

I was.

I did.

SKEPTIC

Brothers and sisters, the preacher
warned us, God is not mocked.

I was nine and impressionable.

He told a story, true he said, about
a car full of laughing young people.
It came screeching up to the stop
sign where an old man stood waiting
to cross the street. He said to
the driver where are you going
in such a hurry? The driver tossed
an empty beer bottle at the man and
said we're going to hell, wanna
come along? A mile down the road
the car crashed into a bank, three
of them were killed. O brothers,
O sisters, what you sow you shall
surely reap. The wages of sin is
death as it says in the holy book.

I was nine and impressionable.

But I wondered if he hadn't made the whole thing up.

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVED

Our guide ended the tour
by taking us down to the cellar
of the mansion and told us the last
people who owned the house
before it was donated to the historical
society turned the space into
a rathskellar. They’d invite
their wealthy friends to come
down for drinks but this
was during Prohibition
so they’d hop on
their pontoon plane and fly from
their dock on the river all
the way to Cuba and back
with enough booze for the party.

I can see them sitting there
around the table, faces flushed,
cigarette smoke hovering.
I can hear the men’s
low voices punctuated by a woman’s
too bright laughter and just
for one night I want to be there,
be one of that half.

BANEFUL BLESSING

On Saturdays in summer
my father worked at the feed
mill till twelve. At the noon
meal (we called it dinner)
he would sometimes graft
onto his usual table grace
a phrase I learned to dread,
a red flag warning that
the rest of my day would
not be spent playing baseball.

I believed then and believe
still he was addressing
me more than God or at
least it was fifty-fifty:

" . . . and Lord we thank Thee
for the privilege of working."

HARBINGER

Pennsylvania, early April.

Her father goes out every morning

to the edge of the woods
and when she asks him why
he shrugs almost imperceptibly
and asks if she'll pour him
another cup of coffee.

As a kindness she reminds

him there are only four
more times for the chemo.
He nods and looks out the kitchen
window and she knows he's
going out there again before it's
time to leave. She's pretty sure
what he looks for is the first
signs of the trillium.

SADIE

She's dying now.
I remember her when
she was younger

and brought her three
kids to church. They
were more than a

handful, especially the
youngest who once crawled
over the back of the pew

and landed kerthunk
at the feet of Martha
Baer who screamed in

the middle of the Lord's
Prayer so we never got
past lead us not into

temptation. Harvey Kuhn lifted
up the fallen child and
handed him to his mother

and whispered loud enough
so we all heard it: I think
this belongs to you.

No one ever heard her
complain about her husband
who everybody knew was as

useless as an appendix.
She carried on. Her
kids grew up and left.

They'll be back for the funeral.

ELDERHOOD

They’ve brought in the old dog
from his doghouse in the backyard
on the edge of the woods.

Now he lies on a rug
on the front porch and when
I walk past he dutifully

pulls himself to his feet
and tries his best to
bark. It comes out in hoarse

croaks, like coughs. He
looks away, as if embarrassed
by his poor showing. Sometimes

I want to call out words of
commendation, praise him for his
vigilance. I want to tell him

it’s all right, he doesn’t need
to worry, doesn’t need to give
the warning, he’s earned

the right to rest, to doze
all afternoon in the sunlight.
I don’t. He wouldn’t understand.

FREE WILL

So I’m standing there
in the cracker aisle holding
a box in each hand and
trying to decide. I’m reading
the side panel of Wheatables.

He passes by on my right
without a pause and tosses
over his shoulder "The other
one tastes better." I look at
his retreating back. He’s

young, broad-beamed. His
head is shaved. I think he is
not an angel from God.
But I put the Wheatables
back on the shelf anyway.

VIRGINIA BLUEBELLS

I go looking for small purple
eruptions that promise
mertensia virginica will
return. It’s mid-March. It’s time.

Surely, surely it was here
along this bank, this stretch
of stream, where the blue
blossoms waved their blessing.

I kneel, wet-kneed, to brush
away old leaves with eager
fingers. Nothing. The promise
lies entombed. My need has

brought me here too soon. I’ll
wait a day or two or more
and then return, looking
for the signs of resurrection.

IN THE PARK

I watch that young father over there
with his two year old (or thereabouts)
curly-headed, knee-scuffed daughter
you can tell she has bewitched him
the way she screams her delight
higher she tells him
push me higher daddy
he will oh he will
I know

MOLLY TELLS THE WOMEN AT HER TABLE WHAT HAPPENED AT THE FUNERAL

Afterwards, Betty and I are
standing there in the hallway waiting
for our ride when this good-looking young
fellow -- in his fifties I would judge -- comes
up to us, leans down and gives her a bear
hug. "Why it’s Brian," she says. "I didn’t
know you were here; it’s so good to see you,"
then turns to me and tells me Brian is
her great nephew. "He looks pretty great to
me, all right," I say and we all laugh.
They chat awhile.
"Time to go," he tells her and gives us each a smile.
He reaches out and takes her in his arms.
I stand there aching.
He turns, then stops. "I think I’ll hug you too,"
he says to me and does.

I’m looking forward to the next funeral.

REUNION

I run into her -- of all places --
in a coffee shop at O’Hare.
I’m scanning the faces of people
standing in line the way
I often do and suddenly there
she is. I wait till she finds
a chair, then come up to her place
and try to look casual. "May
I join you?" I say and watch her face
for signs of recognition.

A moment passes. At last they come . . .
the gasp, the smile I still remember.
"Why it’s been years," she says
and bites her lower lip the way
she always did whenever
something pleased her.

There isn’t time for more
than the briefest of biographies.
There isn’t time nor
is it the place to tell
her that when she waitressed
at McHenry’s Diner and I came in
after school and put on my bus boy
apron, cleaning off her tables,
I became an acolyte of Joy,
a love-crazed Worshiper.

THE BOOKS AT OUR HOUSE

take up many shelves
in many rooms
and most of them have been read
or at least dipped into.

Some, though, stand
there waiting patiently
to be taken in hand
like unchosen girls
at the high school dance
hoping for a chance
to change my life.

Other are accusatory.
When I look their way
I hear them hiss
that I have no right not
to let them have their say,
that to keep them in this
unread state is tantamount
to crimes against humanity,
a form of felonious insanity.

Here’s one: Facts from Figures
by M.J. Moroney, a book
about statistics, four hundred
pages of formulas and graphs
(not the kind of thing
you read for laughs)
published in 1951 and
dedicated to his wife.
One can only hope she
had a sense of humor.
Sample chapter: "Association
Contingency, and Goodness
of Fit -- the X2 Distribution."

Not today.
Maybe later.

HOUSE PRIEST

"And Micah consecrated the Levite;
and the young man became his priest,
and was in the house of Micah."
-- Judges 17:12

The painter comes today.
He’ll cover over streaks and
stains we’ve committed
and make it look as though
we’ve led a pure, folly-free
existence here.

Call it our
Immaculate Deception.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, EARLY

There’s a new Perkins in town
just down the highway
from Martins Diner.
I’ve heard it’s pretty nice,
everything sparkly clean,
lots of fancy pancakes,
a sweet-looking girl
who meets you
at the door and takes
you to your table.

Got some competition now
I say to Thelma,
see if I can get her going.
She doesn’t take the bait,
just thunks my coffee
down in front of me
and stalks away. I wait
for her to bring
the half and half.
It doesn’t come.
Thing is, I say real loud
(and say it with a laugh),
from what I hear
the service over there
is great, topnotch.
That’s all it takes. I watch
her body freeze,
then turn my way.
For all I care,
she says, you can take
your hairy butt down there.
That would really make my day.

She doesn’t mean it
and knows I know.

I get up to go.
I think this time
I’ll leave a 2 dollar tip.

SNOWFALL OVERNIGHT

No matter how many times
you've seen it happen, whether
it had been forecast or not,
you will be hopelessly enchanted
when you wake to a white wonderworld.

A REFLECTION ON MICAH 4:3

Turning a sword into a plowshare
can be done with some serious
pounding and shaping. The same
goes for making pruning hooks
out of spears. To turn an automatic
weapon (think Glock) into
a useful tool is a bit more
complicated. Any ideas?

STRATEGY

Marvin has a new snowblower, bought
it last month and no doubt’s
been hoping it would snow ever
since. Now it has and he’s over there
clearing his driveway. He’s been at
it since 5 AM. Couldn’t wait
to get started even though
he doesn’t leave for work till 8.

There are rules that apply.
I can’t ask but I can
lean on my shovel and shake
my head and make
myself look pathetic and
if that doesn’t work
I can wait till I’m sure
he’s looking my way.

And wave.

KARMA KICKS IN

If you were lucky enough
to have a little sister
I hope you were kinder
to her than the boy
who took wicked
delight in filling her
days with assorted pokes
pushes and taunts all
designed to make her
cry or at least yell for
mother

If you were a nasty
little turd like that
I hope one afternoon that when
the two of you were playing
with Lincoln Logs and
you were up to your
usual meannesses

she picked one up and broke
it over your head

Lord
knows I had it
coming