Out of Work

The cruelest part of this Depression
is not the lack of hope,
but the possession.
***
A year without a job
provides the clue
why my young son pretends at “interviews.”
* * *
Oh to have the options of a kid:
to build a reputation
or a pyramid.
* * *
Zealots are always in a bind:
take Tantalus, thirsting, chin-deep in a lake, or
me, a spring of talent, and no takers.
* * *
The want ads never change,
but still I read them over
in winter search of four-leaf clovers.
* * *
Perhaps I’ll run an ad
to make it clear
that anytime I’m needed I am here.
* * *
In these hard times
it’s good to know I have the skills
for almost every job that’s just been filled.
* * *
Dashing for mail,
then shuffling back annoyed,
the calisthenics of the unemployed.
* * *
Pop bottles sold today:
another line of credit
in my resume.
* * *
Consider why I rocking-chair
through all insults:
it’s paradigm of effort and result.
* * *
Fresh office gossip
brought to this stale home
shines like the lights of Rome.
* * *
Of health and kin,
this note from Mom—
and “Have you found a job?”
* * *
That I am guiltless heartens me
but still
somebody has to pay the bills.
* * *
Uneasy, shy
the neighbors wave to me,
as if I have a cancer or V. D.
* * *
“I have a lead,”
I tell a working friend,
“That’s good.” The conversation ends.
* * *
After the introduction,
I’m sure he will begin,
“What do you do? What business are you in?”
* * *
How ridiculously sweet of her to flatter
my meticulous attention to details
which do not matter.
* * *
So kindly she makes love to me
of all descriptions,
as if she’s filling a prescription.
* * *
Let us rent a booth at the county fair:
I will sell slices of my mellowed tongue,
and you, doll vestments from your graying hair.
* * *
This day is stretching longer
than my heart can see.
This is the seventh Sunday I have had this week.
* * *
“Look here,” I say to me,
“try harder to get work.”
Then I dial half the number, and hang up.
* * *
Disappointment that endures
amplifies its hurt—
cynical of harvest, covetous of dirt.
* * *
Through this twilight’s last gleaming
I observe
the body being fed, the spirit starved.
* * *
Worst of all,
your calls
are not returned.

Norma

Most nights I am complete—

the Oxford English Dictionary,

a Swiss Army knife,

Britannica, A to Z.

But not tonight, for I am tired and old

and empty of the comfort of your voice,

the reassurance of your brushing hand.

Mother of God

She awakens early

and frets that God

will be late again

turning on the sun.

So much to do.

Yesterday, He let the rain

run over long,

flooding Brazil 

and drowning the cat.

Now his goldfish are dying.

She stands at the door of His room,

watching His lumpish rise and fall,

and her heart and the earth quake.

She withdraws

to bake His bread

and prays He will survive

his teenage years.

Open House

Will I ever have to live in my van

(which I purchased with that distinct prospect in mind,

half hoping circumstance would put me to the test)?

Here, in the backseat, is my bedroom,

in the middle seat my library.

Deliveries can be made at the rear.

Come in my front door

and have some tea.

There are cup holders for both of us.

Sidewalk: For Sean

They’re razing the daycare center, 

and I watch a crane hoist high above the littered playground

a solid block of amber in which my granddaughter,

arms outstretched,  runs to me.

Discovery

Sex was always second prize—

irresistible, addictive, worth dying for,

yet messy, fumbling, a minefield through which

safe routes were never certain—

delicious, foul, precious,

an evolutionary romp.

First prize was discovery—

those minutes, hours and days

of incessant surprise,

when her life unfolded like origami

and her every entrance was Christmas morning.

Passages

Her fingers are sliding off the world:

combing through shades of friends and strands of unkempt hair;

clutching at images that undulate and flee;

caressing clouds and sunsets and songs that come in pixels;

clawing for words that bob like bottles and then wash out to sea.