poems in those

university mags?

tiny dribblings of

unreality,

boring probes

into the

nonsensical.

I finished my drink,

got up to walk

out.

“I studied under

Prof. Harris

at City College,”

the guy at the end

of the bar

repeated.

“sure you did,”

said the guy at

the middle of the

bar,

“you were under

him,

face down,

on the springs!”

I stepped out into

the night just in time

to see a car hit a woman

crossing the street.

she flipped up

on the hood

on her back.

stayed there.

the guy jumped out of

the car and screamed,

“JESUS CHRIST!”

suddenly there were

125 people in the

street.

I turned and walked

away from it.

there was nothing I

could do.

when I got to my car

the left front tire was

flat.

I got in and sat

there.

the fog was rolling

in.

I turned on the

ignition

and clicked the

radio on.

it had been a

crappy

summer.

some luck, somehow

I was already an old man

working there,

nearing 50,

had been there eleven

years

working the night shift,

this young guy came

along,

blond, swift, full of

energy.

he told me at a coffee

break one

night:

“I’m only going to be

here a year, I’m working

on my novel.”

twenty years later

I heard he’s still there,

and worse, that he’s

given up

writing.

some of those jocks

deserve the dull

jobs

they hate.

so many of those

jobs are held

by

first time

novelists.

I was one of

them

but somehow I knew

that the gods were

watching

so I never told

anybody.

and still

to this day

there are billions

of people

who don’t know!

art class

of course, it wasn’t my idea.

to me, Art is a fairly dirty word used by a large number

of people hiding behind walls of themselves;

I’m afraid I’m a shit and I prefer it that

way. that’s all right

because I play my small game

and let alone what should be

let alone.

but the mother suggested our daughter

attend Saturday art class

and what’s a drunk and a gambler and an unemployed man

to say? I pay a bit of child support, it’s worth it,

she’s a good little rag of a girl and we laugh a lot.

but the mother believes in Art,

she runs with a whole mad gang like that—

they chew on Art like vultures, suckerfish,

the blathering soul of Wilde, well, never mind,

don’t let me get into that, o.k.?

the first one or 2 times were all right

I was just a strange man

standing there.

then later when the mothers saw

how my child ran to me with such delightful fury and

trust

I was almost accepted as if I

cared.

but as the weeks went on

the parents began to know each other,

speak to each other.

there was one perfectly terrible man,