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.