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from surgery.

he meets me in the men’s john.

“God damn,” he says to me,

“where did you find her? oh, I just like

to look at girls like that!”

I tell him: “it’s my specialty: cement

hearts and beautiful bodies. If you can find

a heart-beat, let me know.”

“I’ll take good care of her,” he says.

“yes, and please remember all the ethical

codes of your honorable profession,” I tell

him.

he zips up first then washes.

“how’s your health?” he asks.

“physically I’m sound as a tic. mentally I’m

wasted, doomed, on my tiny cross, all that

crap.”

“I’ll take good care of her.”

“yes. and let me know about the heart-beat.”

he walks out.

I finish, zip up and also walk out.

only I don’t wash up.

I’m far beyond all that.

eat your heart out

I’ve come by, she says, to tell you

that this is it. I’m not kidding, it’s

over. this is it.

I sit on the couch watching her arrange

her long red hair before my bedroom

mirror.

she pulls her hair up and

piles it on top of her head—

she lets her eyes look at

my eyes—

then she drops the hair and

lets it fall down in front of her face.

we go to bed and I hold her

speechlessly from the back

my arm around her neck

I touch her wrists and hands

feel up to

her elbows

no further.

she gets up.

this is it, she says,

eat your heart out. You

got any rubber bands?

I don’t know.

here’s one, she says,

this will do. well,

I’m going.

I get up and walk her

to the door

just as she leaves

she says,

I want you to buy me

some high-heeled shoes

with tall thin spikes,

black high-heeled shoes.

no, I want them

red.

I watch her walk down the cement walk

under the trees

she walks all right and

as the poinsettas drip in the sun

I close the door.

the retreat

this time has finished me.

I feel like the German troops

whipped by snow and the communists

walking bent

with newspapers stuffed into

worn boots.

my plight is just as terrible.

maybe more so.

victory was so close

victory was there.

as she stood before my mirror

younger and more beautiful than

any woman I had ever known

combing yards and yards of red hair

as I watched her.

and when she came to bed

she was more beautiful than ever

and the love was very very good.

eleven months.

now she’s gone

gone as they go.

this time has finished me.

it’s a long road back

and back to where?

the guy ahead of me

falls.

I step over him.

did she get him too?

I made a mistake

I reached up into the top of the closet

and took out a pair of blue panties

and showed them to her and

asked “are these yours?”

and she looked and said,

“no, those belong to a dog.”

she left after that and I haven’t seen

her since. she’s not at her place.

I keep going there, leaving notes stuck

into the door. I go back and the notes

are still there. I take the Maltese cross

cut it down from my car mirror, tie it

to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave

a book of poems.

when I go back the next night everything

is still there.

I keep searching the streets for that

blood-wine battleship she drives

with a weak battery, and the doors

hanging from broken hinges.

I drive around the streets

an inch away from weeping,

ashamed of my sentimentality and

possible love.

a confused old man driving in the rain

wondering where the good luck

went.

girls in pantyhose

schoolgirls in pantyhose

sitting on bus stop benches

looking tired at 13

with their raspberry lipstick.

it’s hot in the sun

and the day at school has been

dull, and going home is

dull, and

I drive by in my car

peering at their warm legs.

their eyes look

away—

they’ve been warned

about ruthless and horny old

studs; they’re just not going

to give it away like that.

and yet it’s dull

waiting out the minutes on

the bench and the years at

home, and the books they

carry are dull and the food

they eat is dull, and even

the ruthless, horny old studs

are dull.

the girls in pantyhose wait,

they await the proper time and

moment, and then they will move

and then they will conquer.

I drive around in my car