LOVE LETTER

Dear Penny,

I'm writing this note to express how deeply I appreciate your patience, your devotion, your unconditional acceptance of me.

Lord knows I don't deserve it. How many times I have neglected you, taken you for granted, selfishly put my needs above yours. I have, much too often, spoken harshly, even shouted at you in anger. Preoccupied with my work or amusement, I have often kept your waiting. I confess that at times I have literally abandoned you for long stretches of time.

I am truly sorry for my thoughtlessness. I know I can never atone for my wrongdoing. Through it all, wonder of wonders, you still adore me. I see it in your eyes.

But how about this: let's go for a long walk, just the two of us.

I'll get the leash.

HARVEY

The barber shop in town occupied
the basement of The Union House,
a room that sat beneath its bar and grill.
From time to time he'd stumble
down the stairs lubricated well
and singing an off color song he must
have picked up in the war. He was
a cheerful drunk and seemed to welcome
all the friendly insults the barber tossed
his way. Some customers joined in.

I watched and listened, rapt.

What I remember most is the time
he stopped and stared at me
and broke into a grin, then fished
into his pocket and flipped me
a half dollar. I caught it, stared at it,
and did not know what to do.
"Say thank you, Mr. Cole"
my father said. I did and looked
the giver in the face. "I ushed to be boy
onect," he said. "That was long ago."
I saw his bloodshot eyes were wet.
He used a dirty sleeve to wipe his face
then turned around to leave.
"It's hot as hell in here," he said.
"I think I hear them callin' me upstairs."

COLLEGE:FRESHMAN YEAR

I'd learned enough of children's cruelty
to know that words can hurt, had done some
of it myself, not much but some. I believed
all that was kid stuff, something one
outgrows, like crying, which is why
I could not, at first, believe what I was
hearing, an upperclassman taunting
another student, telling him he was
a sorry excuse for a human being,
a worthless piece of crap. "It's true,
isn't it, Bernie?" he hissed. "It's all
true, and I'll tell you why -- because
you're a Jew, a goddamn stinking Jew."
What I didn't understand was why
Bernie sat there and took it, why he
didn't, at least, get up and walk away.
I didn't understand then, but now what
I understand even less, and remember
to my great shame, is that I just
sat there myself, mute.

BRIGHTENED CORNER

"The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light"
-- Isaiah 9:2

They blew into the visitors' room like it was party time,
stomping snow from their boots, laughing loud.
Four of them -- a mother and her three kids,
shouting friendly insults at each other, tearing off
their coats, jostling past us, racing to the seats
at the far end of the room.

The guards gathered around the check-in desk
eyed them with a mix of curiosity and disapproval.
Such gaiety seemed out of place in this somber space.
It was if the children didn't understand that fun
is forbidden in a prison.

The man I'd come to see and I exchanged a smile.

Any light is welcome to those who dwell in darkness.

SOLOMON CREEDY

I don't much like the cold
he said when he showed up
that day wearing feed sacks
over his head. He lived
down by the tracks in a hut
he's somehow thrown together:
sheets of corrugated tin,
scraps of wood from God
knows where. In warm weather
it served well enough, we
guessed, but a winter storm
like this one . . .

He stood there shivering.
Come in our teacher said
and pointed him toward
the big stove that kept
our one room schoolhouse
toasty warm. He stomped snow
from his boots, held his hands
out to the heat, gave three or
four deep sighs, then left without
a word. Our teacher explained
that some men who came back
from the war were not the same
as when they left. He was such
a gentle boy, she said, and he
was really good at spelling. It's
such a shame. After that we
weren't afraid of him as much,
but still a little bit.

TOUGHNESS LESSON

I admired Danny Rambler. Of all
the boys in our school (grades
one through eight -- I was in second)
he was the toughest.
Not the biggest or the strongest,
but rough-edged, solid, the first
to take a dare. You could imagine
him jumping off a roof and bouncing
right up. He had an easy laugh,
the kind that made the teacher
smile even when he spelled
"friend" wrong for the third time.
Not even Henry Cassel picked
on him. I never saw him in a fight;
nobody would have been that stupid.
That's why that afternoon at recess
when the older boys were throwing
rocks into a big puddle on the playground
and one of them by accident hit Danny
on the head and he came in the door
holding his hands over the blood
that dripped to the floor and he was
crying just a little bit, I saw
that there are limits to how
far toughness will take you.
   

IT'S NOT ROAD RAGE

It's not road rage. Call it
intense irritation. It happens
when I look in the rear view
mirror and see a tail-gater
on my tail, so close I can
read intense impatience written
on the driver's face. I check
my speed. I see I'm moving
fast enough, right at the posted
limit or even some above.

Here is my temptation -- to slow
down, slow down even more.
I'll teach him (or her)
a lesson is my thought.
And sometimes -- I confess it --
I do exactly that. But other times
I fantasize: I hit the brakes
real hard, The guy behind me
rams my rear, is clearly
in the wrong, will have to pay
a fine, bear the cost of all repairs,
and pay my whiplash bills
for therapy, months of it.

I know, I know. This is crazy talk.
It isn't, as I said, road rage.
But it's getting pretty close.