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]