The Masked Ball

 

The dancers on the floor whirl masked, defaced.

The music’s back. Why is it not more fun?

Muffling the mouth, and over the ears laced.

 

Like magic, ease of smile and touch erased,

Breath of your partner fatal as a gun.

The dancers on the floor whirl masked, defaced.

 

Those dearest, in the past gladly embraced,

Stand glanced at now askance as anyone.

Muffling the mouth and over the ears laced.

 

Inside the siege of castle walls encased—

Enchanted chain of thorns that choke the sun—

The dancers on the floor whirl masked, defaced.

 

The cellar’s hooked bat drips its silent waste.

How can spells cast in darkness be undone?

Muffling the mouth, and over the ears laced.

 

Grateful to stay alive, these should feel graced:

Yet, craning, check the punchbowl for a potion.

The dancers on the floor whirl masked, defaced.

Muffling the mouth, and over the ears laced.

Corona

 

It's new, it's old. The checker, given no

Mask by the drugstore, asked if she’ll drop to

Three days—cuts at stores, not headquarters—

Says yes quick, long ago taught lesson one: less

Beats none. Now her daughter gets no Easter

Dress, so she’ll buy her some bauble. But—

Can’t make the rent? Unthinkable. And for

The unthinkable, who pays the cost, Frost

Knew: “Home is the place where, when you

Have to go there, they have to take you

In.” Grandma won’t complain, though uncle’s

Kids crowd her three rooms—now more,

Rolled up in blankets bedtime on the floor.

The food of love—soup, pasta, beans—love

Thins: the broth, the sauce—and knows its

Long division, one fries split five ways.

Lunchtime, the checker fights the urge to lift

A ramen. In line, some take care to keep

The safe six feet. But scoffers violate the space,

Raised by no gentle dad who taught affection

Mandates mutual protection. Besides, what’s due

A stranger? When the checker says, “Just one,”

Those, rich or poor, brought up to snatch, snap

Back. The rest walk weary with a small sack to

Their car, relieved they’ve passed today’s test

Of civility, since it will remind them who they

Are. Store parking lot, pre-dawn, some wait for

Toilet paper, not for them—old man for old

Woman, old woman for neighbor who can’t

Leave home: her son’s not right. School’s

Shut, forever? Eyes glazed, some kids click

“Lessons,” then click games all day. Others,

Sat down by their parents at the table, learn

They mean it: Read. Write. For love is a stern

Taskmaster. The mother who can barely read

Herself watches the day’s fear drain out from

Her daughter’s face—the girl curled up inside

Wrinkle In Time—glad there’s a shelter for

Her child she never had. Later, a newfound

Pleasure: they go walk, sun warm on neck,

Trees overhead a pink-white blur, air’s

Clarity not yet destroyed. But—the river,

Dirty—not safe for the boys to

Fish. Harder and harder to believe

In a “country” that poisons itself, where

Though you work two jobs, all doors

Stay shut. Great-Grandma kept

A photograph of Roosevelt. How had that

Felt? A stranger to him, yet he saved

Her home. Left on its own, love will

Contract to those familiar. How

Expand? Sickness, communal—but

The cure? Down at Mercy, doctors,

Nurses, janitors and aides on their

Stoic rounds all want to help, despite

The risk. But first you have to make it

Past the desk. Painkillers, cough

Syrup, whiskey, cheap brands,

The checker rings up at the drugstore

Register, shifting feet from right

To left as hours pass. Eyeing

The Easter sale display, a little girl

Picks out a crown with bunny ears.

Her mother starts to say yes, then

Says no. The girl sees the look

She often sees these days, and

Makes no fuss. The line grows

Longer, slower. The checker

Rubs her nose. Always, late

Afternoons, a silence

Falls. She hands each

Customer a coupon and

Receipt. She says,

“Stay well.” She prays

For her three days.

Final Jeopardy

 

What’s distracting her? So I thought

Watching the game as she won it again

And again. Predator of the green

Resplendent quetzal? The Catholic origin

Of pretzel? Boiling River of Peru? All this

She knew, her answers right, but something

Wrong. For through all the pleasant play—

The dread cane toad, the caveprints of

Chauvet, the phantom road—she stood

Unmoved, the others’ jokes evoking just

A hint of smile, beneath dark placid eyes

Da Vinci might have drawn. Her only

Stab at gaiety, a yellow scarf circling her

Throat, though seeming more a clerical

Medieval cloak, enfolding her in solitude.

Yet her air, sturdy: in her profound

Courtesy, she’d asked them, unknown

To us, how long these rounds could

Last, in case by then her own deadline

Might have passed. Meanwhile

The quiz board flashed its merry

Inquisition—who wrote “Masque of

The Red Death”? Which body organ

Harbors “crypts”?—her stance,

Unmoved by right or wrong, as if

Sometimes the task is not to know

The answer, but to be

The question no one asks.

Not till after—since she

Belonged to those loved her,

Not who watched—did we learn

Of the cancer. Then sadness

Fell, rebellion of the heart:

She was so smart!

 

Still, it’s a game. The players

Come, the players go, ghosts

Flickering that flash across

The screen. But now—no!—not

The host?—at the podium, Master

Of Ceremonies, the one

Meant to stand and stay

While others pass?

 

In some dark wood, designing

Scientists devised a phantom

Road, raucous with traffic

Noise, a trial, a test: which

Creature, craving peace, would

Fly? From its willow nest

Beside the riverbed, feeling

The sky constrict around its

Melody—“Sweet, sweet!”—

This bird spread wings for

An unknown shore.

 

What is the yellow warbler?

 

Little Man

 

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.

 

 

Old New York

                                      

What comfort in a photo of

The dead? You may like looking, but

They can’t look back. I click

On the Internet once more: video

Someone spliced and posted, “Old New

York.” In grainy sepia, a throng swells

Henry Street, black coats, long skirts, all

Hats and caps. Some glance up curiously

At me as they pass. Cart-horses, ponderous,

Plod by. Your ear keeps straining for

The clip-clop you can’t hear. On sidewalks

Crammed with fruit stands, crates, the crowd

Swerves, breaks to reconverge: a random

Face jerks as frames skip. An officer

In tall round helmet twirls his stick like

A cartoon. Far down the street, feet planted

Square, a boy stares straight your way at

What you cannot see: that strange contraption,

The  tripod. He tosses an apple up

And down. Cut: grand procession, sunny

Avenue. Bystanders, cheering mute, wave

Tiny frantic flags. Old film projected at new

Speeds: once-stately tread, marchers in

Some dark uniform, now rocking side

To side, near-comic doubletime.

Borne in their midst, like the Ark of

The Covenant, what they most love:

Proud water carriage. Firemen! Lost,

Blotted—massive shadow falls,

The triangular blurred Flatiron

Building. Cut: factory girls, lined up

To punch the clock, one unforgiving time

Card in each hand. Each girl, the same

Pale shirtwaist and hairstyle, wave

Piled on top—fashion?—or fear

Of shuttles, belts, and blades? Too

Young, too old, to ever hear of

Roosevelt? One girl alone wears on her

Shoulders some odd shawl—Greek?—

Hand touching her hair tumbling

And unkempt, she smiles straight

At the lens, as if she hides

A secret. Cut: bodies hurtling, flying

Through the air—the arms flung

Out, churning for ballast—flurries,

Skaters, Central Park. One boy who

Glides by wobbles, crashes, strikes

His knees, and struggling up, is

Shoved down by some faceless

Man. Cut: wide shot form

Across the water—hunkered

Like a fortress on a foggy

Shore, ancient Manhattan, camera

Panning, left to right, toward.

Frozen? Stopped. And

Now the maker—on

A whim?—superimposes

On the skyline the Twin

Towers, to show where they

Would go, would

Have gone. The apple

The boy tosses rises,

Falls, each time I

Watch. Each time,

The same tired cart-horse,

Poised in the same

Spot, hears some odd

Sound, and turns

Its head. No one,

Of course—not that

Boy, and not his dog

Sitting beside, ears

Pricked, alert—is still

Alive. Did the factory

Girl survive to have

A wedding, bear

A child? I turn it

Off. I touch my hair.

She smiles.

                                           

FIrewall

Corporate sent out a coupon. That explains
Cars lined up jammed at the chain keeping
Back from the bays at the Firewall Lube Shop
The customers cursing, complaining, irate at
The wait. Double the work but same crew, Ron
The manager not allowed more. Jack—knows
The ropes, never promoted—runs to and fro: “Tom,
Coolant! Arturo, the plugs!”—he’s mad, they all
Know, but Jack never explodes. He just
Sweats. He calls to his head man, who needs
No machines, diagnoses by sound, gets all his
Hours—Jack sees to that—and was nicknamed for
Noodles: “Hey, Ramen!” Under a hood, Ramen
Sighs: “Not my name”—given him by Arturo,
“See? Noodles! Chinese!” Ramen: “I am from
Vietnam”—Jack: “Help Juan? He’ll catch on
Quick. Where’s the Kid?”—his name too, lost to
Time—“Kid, see that old guy with the cane?—do his
Next. Looks like might have a stroke. Your safety
Glasses, lost? Broke?” “Ron says no need, we’re
Rushed.” “Oh, that right? You’re no good to me
Blind.” Art: “Jack, I’ll that that blonde’s Jeep.”
“Nope. You won’t.” Jack caught Art once
Gouging a lady, now gives him just men. Bad
Blood there. When Jack hired the Kid, Art kept
Ribbing him: “Nerd! Says firewall’s some
Computer word, can’t be our name!”—on and
On, every day, till Jack raised, not his voice,
But forefinger—a flag they all knew—took
Art back to the stockroom where no one
Could hear. From that day, hazing stopped.
Primed for payback, Art bided his time. So
One day: “Hey Jack! Those Saigon girls”—
Massage parlor next door—“must be quick!
Just took your lunch break!” Scaling
A ladder, Jack, growling: “I just fixed their
Sign.” Checking under a truck, knees
Stuck out, Ramen: “Those girls,
Chinese.” Jack: “Well, they look hungry.” Art:
“Hungry for me!” “Bet they’re fifteen. Enjoy
Jail. Where’s Ron? Still in the office? Oil
Filters look low.” From the chain,
The crowd groans. A shout: “Been here
Two hours!” Jack: “Ron, let Latisha come
Out and scan jobs, give folks times.”
Ron: “She can’t! You know that’s
Management!” Jack: “She can! I
Showed her how.” Juan: “Who’s
Stuck on skeleton, Superbowl
Sunday?” “The Kid.” “Shit”—
The Kid drops his wrench. Ron:
“Hey guys, we’re slammed. Forget
Lunch—” “Whoa!” Ron: “Tell it to
Oprah.” Tom, six-foot, red beard,
Stalks up: “Jack, I’ve had it!” Jack,
Shocked: Tom never complains. “I’m
By the chain, on that Volkswagen,
The tall lady’s, her with the bun. She
Keeps hassling me, screaming at
Me in some weird barking
Language. I’m done.” Jack frowns,
Tries to look calm. Starts in
Whistling off-key, scans
The floor. Who can calm
A mad foreigner? Then—

 

“Of course! Ramen!
Remember? You’ve translated
For Mr. Nguyen. You go!
Perfect!”
Ramen stares, blinking: “She’s
German!” He watches
While Jack, there since
Five, wipes the sweat from
His nose. Jack: “Just try?”
A pause. Heading
Out, Ramen sighs.