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]