Rue du Simplon 14

As often as
Crying in airports
And standing in the rain
Pocketing dreams and thoughts
Of successful marriages
Of fidelity and staying dry
I go the length of the lot
To find you
And later, I step outside
And don't know why

Each day I wonder
Shall I stay the Summer?
In the morning, gaze at clouds
Wander through castles
And shiver in lakes
And in the evening
Sit in the hotel
And whisper in your ear
"Is this what you want?"
To be held
To cling to you
For a moment, the heat
The green shutters closed
To grin at the rain
Is all I ever wanted

So take me while it rains
While tourists sit it hotel lobbies
"waiting it out"
Biding the "wasted" time
Spent inside
Ignoring the foxed pages of "Ash Wednesday"
Scattered curiously about the reception desk
"Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still"
While I, atop the blanket
Look skyward
The small lamp's fringed shade
The stars on the cracked ceiling
And waves, like the midnight blue
Of the menacing ocean at Thanksgiving
The Delft blue
The Robin's eggs
Your eyes in the darkness
Shine blue

Santa Ex

So I asked her about Santa (my nickname for her impotent, near-bankrupt, near-sixty ex-boyfriend), and she replied, "I at last realized, who needs these passive-aggressive old men?" Amen.

Memorial Day Weekend Ease

Friday, barbecue and bonfire (two fires going at once), dogs, friends, kids, toasting marshmallows....Saturday, power wash patio and adirondack chairs, movie...Sunday, power wash back of house, trip to nursery with Karla, love the man in the wheelchair--he is so clever, knows everything there is to know about every plant on the lot, and he is uncannily there when you need him...gardening, dinner and bonfire at neighbor's; Monday morning, ahhh....down time under the umbrella, breakfast, NY Times crossword, how much better than diet Coke is real Coke, barbecue in my woods, Amy back from Tangier, toured the Casbah, Bubba burgers and drumsticks marinated in Stubb's Chicken Marinade...asked Jesse if the color of his new bedroom is the color of the sky...told the story of William S. Burroughs serving a plate of razor blades and light bulbs to his guests for appetizers....heh heh...how happy I am to sit among my trees, look up, feel the breeze...remember when he planted these....

Oh, Lepidopterist (1984)

Oh, lepidopterist
I have followed you through many warm months
Was spectator to your mad attempts through dry New Mexican air
And maintained faith
When the net came up empty

I was hypnotised by crickets rubbing their wings
And listened to your comely recitations at dusk
". . . and deity, and inspiration,/And life, and tears, and love. . ."
I read to you as the sun rose
As you reclined in your bath, your net leaning against the side

Weekenders came to inspect your captives
And asked whether butterflies grew

Sometime this morning
Wearing only baggy shorts and tennis shoes
You go out into the dawn
You know it flies in the big square states
You wait with a lit cigar between two fingers, the net poised
Above one shoulder
Suddenly, a fatal curiosity
Lites unsuspectingly on a suspecting brow

So beautiful, it takes my breath away
The wings, almost transparent
Continue to flutter
Pinned to your board

But Still (1983)

(Jilline loved this poem)


I can hear your heartbeat
As my head lies on your chest
You cannot claim to love me
And although, I do not
At this time Love you, I would like to.

It's sort of funny, you know
Because only a month ago
David lay on my chest
And he similarly remarked
"I can hear your heartbeat."
I couldn't claim to love him then
And although he, too, did not
At that time Love me, he would have liked to.

But still . . . so still . . .

And so it seems we are all in 'disgrace'
Not just Shannon who is a dog currently suffering from diarrhea,
Not just the English professor who thinks "it could be safe,"
Not just my sibling who has Christ's eyes,
Not just The Woman who remains 'intact,'
Nor Jill who wants to weigh 200 lbs, nor I who am aloof,
Not even Robert who answers the phone,
Or the history professor who, despite what has been said, lies alone on the couch.

And so I can hear all of your heartbeats
Even as I have trembled in the cold,
Let you follow me home,
Told you you were weird,
Shared secrets about Mother and Father,
Tried to break your silence,
Wanted to talk to you all night in Connecticut,
Hid from myself
Loved you but not loved you,
Missed your Friday afternoon lectures.

And yet still . . . so very still . . .

Nights Ago in a Cafe (Cambridge, 1982)

Victor, who is an old "("old in the sense that he is much older than I) friend, is writing a play. I sip my ice-coffee and look beyond him to the street as he describes the contents of his unfinished script. The street is barren. A car rolls by now and then. A light flickers in the college house across the street. My attention flickers there for a moment too. Then it shifts from the night to the shadows of Victor's face.

He is a better listener than I. He gazes into my eyes--a better gazer than I. I look down, stir my coffee with a straw. I want so much to cry, so much to tell him. I have changed so much. He still listens, gazes. I stir my coffee more, take an occasional sip (I almost wrote "slip"). I want it all to last. Somehow this moment comforts me. He also drinks slowly, sharing my desire to make the coffee and the moment last. Finally, I sigh, wipe a moist eye with his napkin (mine dropped to the floor earlier), and look up. His eyes are still right there, fixed intently on mine. And his response? With chin in one hand, glass in the other: "I could use all this in my play." This is, of course, hardly the answer I expected, but I smile--because how can I cry here in front of him? He knows I want to. Besides, why make a scene here at Cafe Pamplona?

He clears his throat and takes his turn: His ex-wife lives in Panama City with her new husband. He used to awake in the morning to find photos of naked "parts" (from "really dirty magazines") in his bathrobe pockets--oh, this was when he lived with his wife and another couple in a big old house. He claims he still doesn't know who placed those "parts" in his pockets. Also, he hasn't gotten to "that point" with his new female friend, and if and when he ever will, he doesn't know.

I notice a button missing on his jacket--just like last year. His shirt sleeve is ripped. Well, you know, he lives alone.

God, it got dark so fast. The coffee is long gone. The conversation is exhausted, and so are we. He dips into his pockets and carefully selects two dimes to leave for the tip.

19th C. Intellectual Eur. Hist, Prof. Donald Fleming, Fall Sem. '85

Last night, I went through several boxes filled with college stuff. Here are some of my 19th c. Euro. Hist. notes taken in November, 1985. This was the best lecture class....prof. was a genius. Filled up 350 pp. of notes and admit to reading synopses of some of the required reading (19th century novels--Dickens, Tolstoy, etc.) on the floor of the Coop. Never even purchased them. Got an A- for the class.

Trout Fishing in America

"As a child when did I first hear about trout fishing in America?"

Original plan was to wake up early and drop James off on St. John's Circle for the caravan to the annual Trout Rodeo in Warwick Park. All week, I had had no intention of attending that event. I like fish as much as anyone, but the idea of catching and killing them leaves me numb. Foolishly, at 7:45 this morning, I called Rafael, and he said parents "kinda hafta" go on the den's field trips. Hearing that, I felt dismayed, for sure, and had only about fifteen minutes to get dressed and into the car with James. Just prior to that fateful call, I had been on the verge of half-dressing, putting on just enough clothes to drive and make the drop off, but after the call, I had to quickly switch gears and get really dressed.

I dressed wrong...The weather reporter on KYW said 70 degrees, so I put on pants, a shirt and my crocs and figured I was good to go. Big mistake. It never went above 53 degrees while we were there. I mumbled and shivered on the bank of the creek. I felt old. Thank God Raven was there because she is younger than I and a seasoned fisherperson, who cheerfully brought an extra rod for James and had no problem repeatedly putting live bait on hooks.

The trout rodeo was, ostensibly, a children's event but, although only kids were allowed to fish the Creek until sunset,the parents were like cheerleaders who were very much in the game, even more so than some of their offspring. It was fascinating and grotesque at the same time. Here was a whole segment of life completely unknown to me prior to this morning. Scores of (apparently) avid fishermen and women brought children of all ages, including some still in diapers, to fish. Eager to go were whole families clad in camouflage, men and boys wearing absurd hip boots and vests with many pockets. A vast array of big people and little people from all walks of life carried rods and boxes, which, when opened, revealed colorful displays of hangers and bobbins and swingers. Of course, some folks preferred live bait--worms and bugs and little fish. It all happened so suddenly. I found myself overwhelmed--I hadn't had time to adjust. There were people everywhere, no one looked familiar, and I just couldn't understand the mass appeal of the gathering; yet, despite my discomfort, I found the scene both horrifying (so many people gathering to kill for sport) and quite intriguing ("A River Runs Through It").

Several hundred trout were released upstream. No one could cast a line until the signal at 10:00 a.m. when the competition officially began. Adults screamed at their children...."Don't start yet! Get your line out of the water! I said NOW!" Teen-age boys stood on the make-shift bridge and other, younger boys, shouted, "Hey! Get off the bridge! That's cheating! That's not fair!" You can always count on children to find the world's exchanges and events inequitable. Kids kept asking parents what time it was, was it time yet? How about now? The tension mounted....

At 10:00 a.m., I was sitting alone in my truck with the heat on, eating Mike & Ikes and perusing the Pennsylvania Fishes Identification Guide pamphlet. All the fish look the same with only slightly different variations in color. Rainbow and Steelhead trout....look the same. Chinook and Coho salmon....the same. What's up with this? Who are they fooling? After I had warmed up a bit, and felt sufficiently like the lousy parent I was for not standing beside my child at the opening of the competition, I left the truck and took the long, cold walk from the parking area to the trout rodeo area, determined to somehow enjoy what was going on.

James sort of caught a fish, but when Raven attempted to net it, it escaped, thank God. By 11:00, the kids had gotten antsy. One boy slid into the creek twice and soaked his sneakers each time. He was cold. Another repeatedly got his hooks caught in tree limbs each time he cast his rod. He was frustrated. My child wanted to know when it was time to eat. He was hungry. Fortunately, it began to rain--not much, but just enough for Raven to be willing to call it a day. I was thrilled.

On the way back to the parking area, James and Lyric, Raven's son, chatted excitedly with each other, not about fishing, but only about their Nintendo DS games which both had waiting in their cars. So much for Trout Rodeo 2008.

P.S. Sorry I forgot to give you the Mayonnaise.