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area with wife, we sat on outside bench.

black fellow with a limp came up, said,

“hey, man, how’s it going?”

I answered, “fine, bro, you makin’ it?”

“no problem,” he said, then walked off to

dry down a Caddy.

“these people know you?” my wife asked.

“no.”

“how come they talk to you?”

“they like me, people have always liked me,

it’s my cross.”

then our car was finished, fellow flipped

his rag at me, we got up, got to the

car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I

started the engine, the foreman walked

up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,

he smiled a big one, “good to see you,

man!”

I smiled back, “thanks, but it’s your party,

man!”

I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”

said my wife.

“sure,” I said, “I’ve been there.”

Van Gogh

vain vanilla ladies strutting

while van Gogh did it to

himself.

girls pulling on silk

hose

while van Gogh did it to

himself

in the field

unkissed, and

worse.

I pass him on the street:

“how’s it going, Van?”

“I dunno, man,” he says

and walks on.

there is a blast of color:

one more creature

dizzy with love.

he said,

then,

I want to leave.

and they look at his paintings

and love him

now.

for that kind of love

he did the right

thing

as for the other kind of love

it never arrived.

the railroad yard

the feelings I get

driving past the railroad yard

(never on purpose but on my way to somewhere)

are the feelings other men have for other things.

I see the tracks and all the boxcars

the tank cars the flat cars

all of them motionless and so many of them

perfectly lined up and not an engine anywhere

(where are all the engines?).

I drive past looking sideways at it all

a wide, still railroad yard

not a human in sight

then I am past the yard

and it wasn’t just the romance of it all

that gives me what I get

but something back there nameless

always making me feel better

as some men feel better looking at the open sea

or the mountains or at wild animals

or at a woman

I like those things too

especially the wild animals and the woman

but when I see those lovely old boxcars

with their faded painted lettering

and those flat cars and those fat round tankers

all lined up and waiting

I get quiet inside

I get what other men get from other things

I just feel better and it’s good to feel better

whenever you can

not needing a reason.

the girls at the green hotel

are more beautiful than

movie stars

and they lounge on the

lawn

sunbathing

and one sits in a short

dress and high

heels, legs crossed

exposing miraculous

thighs.

she has a bandanna

on her head

and smokes a

long cigarette.

traffic slows

almost stops.

the girls ignore

the traffic.

they are half

asleep in the afternoon

they are whores

they are whores without

souls

and they are magic

because they lie

about nothing.

I get in my car

wait for traffic to

clear,

drive across the street

to the green hotel

to my favorite:

she is

sunbathing on the

lawn nearest the

curb.

“hello,” I say.

she turns eyes like

imitation diamonds

up at me.

her face has no

expression.

I drop my latest

book of poems

out the car

window.

it falls

by her side.

I shift into

low,

drive off.

there’ll be some

laughs

to night.

in other words

the Egyptians loved the cat

were often entombed with it

instead of with the women

and never with the dog

but now

here

good people with

good eyes

are very few

yet fine cats

with great style

lounge about

in the alleys of

the universe.

about

our argument to night

what ever it was

about

and

no matter

how unhappy

it made us

feel

remember that

there is a

cat

somewhere

adjusting to the

space of itself

with a delightful

grace

in other words

magic persists

without us

no matter what

we may try to do

to spoil it.

Destroying Beauty

a rose

red sunlight;

I take it apart

in the garage

like a puzzle:

the petals are as greasy

as old bacon

and fall

like the maidens of the