READING THE GREAT GATSBY FIFTY YEARS LATER

Off I go again to the Jazz Age.
This time I will not fall in love
with Daisy. The parties on the lawn
are crasser, the men stupider,
the women shallower than
I remember. I did not and
do not envy you, old sport.
You are even more pathetic
if that is possible. You have
it all wrong, all wrong. You
are too young. Do not succumb
to your death dream. But I see
you hear her laughter and turn
your head. She enters the room
and looks in our direction.
And we are both goners.
Again.

HERSHEY PARK, 1950

Come with me. I have coins
in my pocket and the day is ten o'clock
new and cool. We will dash past
the merry-go-round to the mill

chute and stand in line behind
girls who toss their heads and crack
their gum. We'll hear the dummy
woman's cackling laughter at

the funhouse but will not go in.
We have been forbidden to go in.
At the bumping cars we will stand
next to the measuring post. You

may be just tall enough this year
to reach the pedals and I could
ride with you. For a break we can
stand on the walking bridge and

watch grown-ups toss bread chunks
to the carp as couples glide by
underneath in rented canoes. If we
run out of money, we can still go

to the fence and watch the Comet cars
climb slowly to the top of the track,
see them come almost to a stop,
then plunge down, down.

We'll wonder if, when we are old
enough, we will have the courage
to raise our arms and show off
like those guys sitting in the front car.

WHEN THE BARN BURNED

We drove to watch. We had moved
away when I was seven, the year
before. I had seen mighty men fill
its mow with hay pitch-forked from
wagons. Lodgers lodged there:
pigs, steers. Sheep too, one the buck
that knocked me down or so I was told.
Pigeons chortled from rafters. Rats ran
rampant, one across my shoe once:
I screamed. Oats, wheat, corn sequestered
in burlap stood in rows. Wagons rested
from rollings. I had climbed the barn's
straw bale mountains, had peed in corners.

I stood watching the flames oranging
the night, burning all of it away. All of it.

I was eight.
I was wrong.

ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE IN 1949

How young must you be to believe that the man who gets out of his black Buick and stands watching you and Danny tossing the baseball     back    and    forth in your front yard and then says as he is leaving you know Connie Mack is always on the lookout for some good ball players might actually be a scout for
the
Philadephia
Athletics?

THE YOUNG PASTOR MEETS REALITY

There were those who did not think
I was wonderful or -- let me be
completely candid -- even competent.

Skeptical at the first, they soon
enough had their suspicions confirmed.
I was, they told themselves, not

at all what they were looking for
in a man of the cloth. My failings
were obvious -- too young, hesitant,

lacking in gravitas, insufficiently
appreciative of their standing,
enthusiastic about the wrong things.

On top of that, my orthodoxy was,
at the very least, questionable.
Besides which, my wife dressed --

how should they put it -- in a manner
not suitable to her station. In
short, they disapproved. I sensed

it, felt it in their averted glances,
knew it not by what they
said as what they didn't say.

I learned what is hard to learn --
that not everyone will love you
the way your mother did.  Not even

good people who sit and listen
to you every week, who greet you
at the door and shake your hand.

FANFARE FOR THE COMMON TOOL

I salute you, tools in this abandoned
shed. You are mute testifiers to arms
and hands that held you, wielded you.

You, ax, who split apart the hearts of trees,
let air in to rings of years of growing, who
once did mighty cleavings, I salute you.

You, scythe, you of the long sweeping
arc of steel slashing, bringing down
stalks of wheat and weeds, I salute you.

You, spade, whose gift was for turning
earth, sliding smoothly underground to free
the deep down brown richness, I salute you.

You, rake, preparer of soils, you who
conquered clumps, transformed them into beds
where seeds could sleep, then stir, I salute you.

You, hammer, pounder of nails, founder
of floors, raiser of walls, hoister of beams,
joiner and fastener and keeper, I salute you.

And you other tools, whose names I do
not know, whose deeds were many
and great, who did what no man or woman

could have done alone, I see you
and acknowledge you. I thank you, praise
you for your work, your works. I salute you. All.

THERE IS A WORD FOR IT

The attack is planned with careful
calculation. It will be sudden, precise.
Sophisticated technology enables
our winged weapons to be dispatched
pilot-less to the exact spot where
the enemy is hiding. War has
become wonderfully tidy, thanks
be to God. Yes, it's true that
occasionally men and women
and children, even babies, will
inadvertently have their bodies
torn apart, their blood and brains
and organs strewn across the ground.
That is most unfortunate. We do
regret it. We prefer, however,
not to dwell on it. In the official
report we will, of course, employ
the appropriate term:
"Collateral Damage."