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and I was there, a child

and I touched the piano keys

as they talked—

but not too loudly

for they had things to say,

the three of them;

and I watched them cover the canaries at night

with flour sacks:

“so they can sleep, my dear.”

I played the piano quietly

one note at a time,

the canaries under their sacks,

and there were pepper trees,

pepper trees brushing the roof like rain

and hanging outside the windows

like green rain,

and they talked, the three of them

sitting in a warm night’s semicircle,

and the keys were black and white

and responded to my fingers

like the locked-in magic

of a waiting, grown-up world;

and now they’re gone, the three of them

and I am old:

pirate feet have trod

the clean-thatched floors

of my soul,

and the canaries sing no more.

silly damned thing anyhow

we tried to hide it in the house so that the

neighbors wouldn’t see.

it was difficult, sometimes we both had to

be gone at once and when we returned

there would be excreta and urine all

about.

it wouldn’t toilet train

but it had the bluest eyes you ever

saw

and it ate everything we did

and we often watched tv together.

one evening we came home and it was

gone.

there was blood on the floor,

there was a trail of blood.

I followed it outside and into the garden

and there in the brush it was,

mutilated.

there was a sign hung about its severed

throat:

“we don’t want things like this in our

neighborhood.”

I walked to the garage for the shovel.

I told my wife, “don’t come out here.”

then I walked back with the shovel and

began digging.

I sensed

the faces watching me from behind

drawn blinds.

they had their neighborhood back,

a nice quiet neighborhood with green

lawns, palm trees, circular driveways, children,

churches, a supermarket, etc.

I dug into the earth.

upon reading an interview with a

best-selling novelist in our metropolitan

daily newspaper

he talks like he writes

and he has a face like a dove, untouched by

externals.

a little shiver of horror runs through me as I read

about

his comfortable assured success.

“I am going to write an important novel next year,” he says.

next year?

I skip some paragraphs

but the interview goes on for two and one-half pages

more.

it’s like milk spilled on a tablecloth, it’s as soothing as

talcum powder, it’s the bones of an eaten fish, it’s a damp

stain on a faded necktie, it’s a gathering hum.

this man is very fortunate that he is not standing

in line at a soup kitchen.

this man has no concept of failure because he is

paid so well for it.

I am lying on the bed, reading.

I drop the paper to the floor.

then I hear a sound.

it is a small fly buzzing.

I watch it flying, circling the room in an irregular

pattern.

life at last.

harbor freeway south

the dead dogs of nowhere bark

as you approach another

traffic accident.

3 cars

one standing on its

grill

the other 2 laying

on their sides

wheels turning slowly.

3 of them

at rest:

strange angles

in the dark.

it has just

happened.

I can see the still

bodies

inside.

these cars

scattered like toys

against the freeway

center

divider.

like spacecraft

they have landed

there

as you

drive past.

there’s no

ambulance yet

no police

cars.

the rain began

15 minutes

ago.

things occur.

volcanoes are

1500 times more

powerful than

the first a

bomb.

the dead dogs of

nowhere

those dogs keep

barking.

those cars

there like that.

obscene.

a dirty trick.

it’s like

somebody dying

of a heart

attack

in a crowded

elevator

everybody

watching.

I finally

reach my street

pull into

the driveway.

park.

get out.

she meets me

halfway

to the door.

“I don’t know

what to do,”

she says, “the

stove

went out.”

schoolyards of forever

the schoolyard was a horror show: the bullies, the

freaks

the beatings up against the wire fence

our schoolmates watching

glad that they were not the victim;

we were beaten well and good