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• Classic-Fiction

imagination and reality

there are many single women in the world

with one or two or three children

and one wonders where the husbands

have gone or where the lovers have

gone

leaving behind

all those hands and eyes and feet

and voices.

as I pass through their homes

I like opening cupboards and

looking in

or under the sink

or in a closet—

I expect to find the husband

or lover and he’ll tell me:

“hey, buddy, didn’t you notice her

stretch-marks, she’s got stretch-marks

and floppy tits and she eats

onions all the time and farts…but

I’m a handy man. I can fix things,

I know how to use a turret-lathe and

I make my own oil changes. I can shoot

pool, bowl, and I can finish 5th or

6th in any cross-country marathon

anywhere. I’ve got a set of golf

clubs, can shoot in the 80’s. I know

where the clit is and what to do about

it. I’ve got a cowboy hat with the brim

turned straight up at the sides.

I’m good with the lasso and the dukes

and I know all the latest dance steps.”

and I’ll say, “look, I was just leaving.”

and I will leave before he can challenge me

to arm-wrestling

or tell a dirty joke

or show me the dancing tattoo on his

right bicep.

but really

all I find in the cupboards are

coffee cups and large cracked brown plates

and under the sink a stack of hardened

rags, and in the closet—more coathangers

than clothes, and it’s not until she shows

me the photo album and the photos of him—

nice enough like a shoehorn, or a cart in

the supermarket whose wheels aren’t stuck—

that the self-doubt leaves, and the

pages turn and there’s one child on a

swing wearing a red outfit and there’s

the other one

chasing a seagull in Santa Monica.

and life becomes sad and not dangerous

and therefore good enough:

to have her bring you a cup of coffee in

one of those coffee cups without him

jumping out.

stolen

I keep thinking it will be outside

now

waiting for me

blue

front bumper twisted

Maltese cross hanging

from the mirror.

rubber floormat

twisted under the pedals.

20 m.p.g.

good old TRV 491

the faithful love of a man,

the way I put her into second

while taking a corner

the way she could dig from a signal

with any other around.

the way we conquered large and

small spaces

rain

sun

smog

hostility

the crush of things.

I came out of last Thursday night’s

fights at the Olympic

and my 1967 Volks was gone

with another lover

to another place.

the fights had been good.

I called a cab at a Standard station

and sat eating a jelly doughnut

with coffee in a cafe and

waited,

and I knew that if I found

the man who stole her

I would kill him.

the cab came. I waved to the

driver, paid for the coffee and

doughnut, got out into the night,

got in, and told him, “Hollywood

and Western,” and that particular

night was just about over.

the meek have inherited

if I suffer at this

typewriter

think how I’d feel

among the lettuce-pickers

of Salinas?

I think of the men

I’ve known in

factories

with no way to

get out—

choking while living

choking while laughing

at Bob Hope or Lucille

Ball while

2 or 3 children beat

tennis balls against

the walls.

some suicides are never

recorded.

the insane always loved me

and the subnormal.

all through grammar school

junior high

high school

junior college

the unwanted would attach

themselves to

me.

guys with one arm

guys with twitches

guys with speech defects

guys with white film

over one eye,

cowards

misanthropes

killers

peep-freaks

and thieves.

and all through the

factories and on the

bum

I always drew the

unwanted. they found me

right off and attached

themselves. they

still do.

in this neighborhood now

there’s one who’s

found me.

he pushes around a

shopping cart

filled with trash:

broken canes, shoelaces,

empty potato chip bags,

milk cartons, newspapers, penholders…

“hey, buddy, how ya doin’?”

I stop and we talk a

while.

then I say goodbye

but he still follows

me

past the beer

parlours and the

love parlours…

“keep me informed,

buddy, keep me informed,