Little Man trots on
three legs. The treacherous
Fourth, as the bad
hip dips, drops, almost
Slipping, not
quite—trademark sway, a quick
Purposeful clip,
circuit rounding the blockwide
Retirement
home—reined in by firm grip
From behind, Mrs. R
on her walker, less
Fortunate than Mr. F,
who can still
Throw Chance sticks,
but better off
Than Mrs. D, who
tripped on chipped
Concrete while out
walking Lucky, then
Dying of blunt force
trauma to
The head, more deadly
than a gun.
On these plains the
dust blows
All day long. Driving
in, from a distance
The great structure
looms, blurring,
Clearing, dim
shifting mirage, rippling
Castle of sand. Days
like this, those who
Can’t leave their
beds and who can, must
Remain within walls,
wending through
Winding halls,
heading off to the laundry
Or lunch room or
library room with its
Thousand-piece puzzle
left half-made
Depicting the sea.
Passing by, slow but not
Halting, steps old Dr.
B, who’d brought
Many souls into the
world, and who’d
Once called the
police on the hospital
Chief whose baby came
in
Bruised. He nods to Miss
V, former
Teacher, who years
ago found
In the school restroom
hiding at
Lunch the girl nobody
liked, then
Letting her spend
lunchtimes dusting
The class books and
feeding
The hamster, who made
them both
Laugh. She laughs
now, as
Little Man speeds by,
trips, jerks up
Full-pace, tail a
metronome
Fanning her knees.
What
A piece of work is
man! How
Noble in reason, how
infinite
In faculty! Mrs. J
rolls by,
Pushed by her friend—elevator
Awaits—on her knee,
apple
Pie, just a slice, to
be carried
Upstairs, to Hank her
Husband in Memory
Care.
On these Great Plains
I took eighth-grade
Orchestra. Our
practice room, a glass
Box, tacked-on
afterthought to a squat
School, hunched
against tides of dust. At
The bell we swarmed in,
grabbing
Instruments,
squabbling and tuning till
Mounting the dais
above us there stood
Mr. Butler, a tall gray
heron
Of a man. Baton
raised, silence
Fell. Downbeat split
the air: we raced
To follow—above,
sizzling grit
Slammed the panes trembling,
Battered and warped, creaking—Wind,
Crack your cheeks!
Scared but
Scared to seem
scared, we’d lift
Eyes, seeking help in
his frown.
But though he’d
correct us,
Restart us, he’d
never look
Down—his sight fixed
on
The gale, as if in
that
Blast he could hear
angels
Play while we failed.
We
Learned: to make
music,
Stand and stare past.
The radio here
broadcasts over the air
Just what lasts:
“classic rock” songs that
Hold their shape,
won’t bleed out loosed
In vast sky. Mick
Jagger’s rough
Tongue flays the
lyrics: “You
Can’t always get what
you
Want, but if you try
sometime, you
Just might find, you
get what you
Need”—the tune
wrested away by
The
London Bach Choir, voices
Climbing
higher and higher, as if
Children’s
cries from a pilgrimage,
Path
without end—till out my car
Window
and over the street
Pours
the last chord
Ascending,
like the lark
Arising:
thy sweet love
Remember’d,
such joy—Mrs. J
And
friend talk. Silent,
Hank
eats his pie.
The
library: three at
The
puzzle. Bored, Little Man
Barks
for his walk.